


Téméraire

by Pinkmanite



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternative Universe - James Bond 007, Angst with a Happy Ending, Guns, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, References to Character Death, See Endnotes For Full Warnings, Spy Movie Typical Violence, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-29 19:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/Pinkmanite
Summary: “Does it do anything?” Jonny pokes at the watch. He’s never subtle about his love for gadgetry and Patrick knows it’s only in part because he makes them; it’s mostly because Jonny likes shiny toys.Patrick grins, taps the single dial on the side. “It tells the time.”Jonny groans.“But I’ll warn you, the alarm is a little loud," Patrick hums, "if you know what I mean.”He winks.(Or, even a world of espionage can’t keep Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane apart)





	Téméraire

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**  
>  Hey so this fic is written in the style of a typical action/spy movie and the content very much reflects that. It's got some heavy stuff so it definitely isn't for everyone, please take care of yourselves. There is also an OC child involved in the action content, so keep that in mind, as well. Please heed the tags and check out the endnotes for more detailed warnings that contain spoilers. 
> 
> **Notes:**  
>  Thank you so much to the Blackhawks Big Fic Energy mods for putting together this amazing fic challenge. Honestly, this was one of the most well-run and beautifully marketed challenges I've ever participated in, so all the kudos to you guys! Thank you to Gina, Emma, and Ree for the early betas, and to Priya and Ashleigh for the late-stage editing and reworking. And also to everyone else who has indulged my snippets and rambling about this AU throughout its conception. It takes a village, truly. 
> 
> So I actually started writing this fic in February 2016 and we've definitely made some significant roster and staff changes since then. I also threw in some other throwback characters along the way so it's quite a strange ensemble. This one is for all of the former Blackhawks that I still miss dearly. 
> 
> Also, I have an author commentary that kind of talks about the process and my thoughts while writing this, which you can view here on [tumblr](https://pinkmanitewrites.tumblr.com/post/181093714289/). In the same vein, you can find me on twitter @[pinkmanite](http://www.twitter.com/pinkmanite/)!
> 
> Lastly but most importantly, the biggest thank you to Vanessa for the most gorgeous artwork, featured in the ebook adaptation she created for this work! It's really, really cool so please [check it out here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/bigficenergy/works/16993341)! There's also a playlist that perfectly captures the mood of this fic that you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16987263)! Seriously, it's wonderful, I'm so incredibly grateful!!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy ♥︎

It's a rough night, to say the least.

It’s dark and cold and absolutely miserable by the time Patrick manages to get home. It’s too late to make something for dinner but also too late to order takeout. So logically, stuck in his conundrum, Patrick settles for slotting up a bagel, angrily slathering it in butter once it pops.

He begrudgingly chews and swallows, wallowing in self-pity. He’d been at the SCO — the Special Clandestine Operations headquarters — almost six hours more than he’d expected, but in the end he’d eventually gotten Double-oh Ten out against all odds, barely reeling him in at the very last seconds.  

He’d almost lost him.

It’s these kinds of the days — the ones where Patrick questions his abilities, questions his career — where he’d really just like to come home to a warm meal and his boyfriend. Just something to keep him grounded. The real things that make home into something to come back to.

But Jonny’s away on a mission so he can’t even have that. Instead, he replaces the Jonny-shaped void with the next best thing; a generous glass of Jonny’s whiskey. Usually, Patrick isn’t too keen on the stuff, but he appreciates the lure of nostalgia, of Jonny, that helps pull him back together.

Everything they do, everything they sacrifice, is for the safety of the world, of innocent people. Patrick couldn’t be prouder, couldn’t have chosen anything more noble and fulfilling, but sometimes, for just a very brief moment, he wishes he could trade it all in just to have Jonny whenever he needs him. It’s selfish and childish, but sitting in the dark with his stupid bagel makes him a little bit less rational.

“I know exactly what he’d say if I told him,” Patrick mumbles schwoozily to the bagel, “he’d tell me that I’m being dumb because we’re both too good at what we do to let it go to waste doing anything else. That the world needs us. That we’re part of something bigger. Some pep talk crap like that,” Patrick rolls his eyes.

The bagel doesn’t respond because Patrick pops the last bit in his mouth and swallows it down alongside his feelings.

He makes to get ready for bed, but then he hears a thump from the living room.

The storm is heavy, there’s lightning and thunder and plenty of wind that can explain the noises away. But despite his lack of field experience, Patrick is still an Operative with subsequent training. And he’s anything but stupid.

“Better safe than sorry,” Patrick murmurs, nodding at the picture of him and Jonny framed on the nightstand. He opens the drawer and reaches toward the back until he finds a small, plastic-y patch that perfectly fits the pad of his thumb. There’s a click at the bottom of the table, which pops down to reveal a Glock 17, the serial code neatly scratched off.

Patrick cocks it like second nature, slowly padding sock-clad feet around each corner. His heart is pounding in his ears and, for the upteenth time today, Patrick wishes Jonny were here with him.

It’s not that Patrick can’t hold his own. He’s well-trained and spars with Jonny and the other Double-ohs on the regular. His shot accuracy is excellent and he’s too clever for his own good. It’d just be nice to have Jonny around to do his thing.

You know, the shooting people thing.

Patrick groans. He’s definitely not _drunk_ but he’s definitely not sober enough for this right now.

There’s a shuffling sound just around this door so Patrick holds his breath, switches the safety off and gets ready for a kill shot, leveling the firearm at the approximate height to go right through the head.

Quickly, Patrick spins around the corner and barely registers the man’s face before his wrists are pinned against the wall, firearm clanging to the ground and the intruder’s full weight against his front. Patrick clenches his eyes shut and prepares for the worst.

He freezes.

There’s lips on his, desperate and biting them open.

“You taste like my whiskey,” Jonny says, loosening his grip on Patrick’s wrists, loosely following his arms until they meet his shoulders, coaxing him to wrap them around his neck.

“Fuck, Jonny,” Patrick gasps, finally getting a good look at his false intruder, “you scared the shit out of me. I almost blew out your brains.”

“Eh,” Jonny shrugs, “I know a different way you can _blow_ out my brains,” he smirks, “without the Glock.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Just for that I think I might pass.”

“You won’t,” Jonny says, cocky, pulling his shirt off to reveal a toned, tan expanse of well-built, broad muscle. Patrick swallows heavily, suddenly feeling more drunk on lust than the whiskey.

“God, I missed you,” Patrick whispers, maybe a little bit more for himself than for Jonny.

They barely make it to their bed, leaving a trail of clothing in their wake.

 

~

 

“When did you get back,” Patrick asks over his container of strawberry pancakes. Leave it to Jonny to eavesdrop on his conversations with bagels and have hot breakfast delivered before Patrick had even woken up.

Jonny shrugs around a forkful of eggs. “I got back to Ops while you were dealing with Sharp but you were already gone by the time I was debriefed.

Patrick hums in acknowledgement, piecing it together. “That’s probably what Andrew was trying to tell me.” A beat, then, “so how did the Avlis assignment go?”

“Could’ve been better,” Jonny sighs, “tracked him from Istanbul all the way to Izmir. Lost his trail once he hit water.”

“Dammit,” Patrick exhales, reaching across the table to refill Jonny’s orange juice while Jonny reaches across to pepper Patrick’s eggs. It’s easy and automatic, comfortable in a way that Patrick had really, really missed.

“You’ve got a month’s worth of intel, though,” Patrick points out, “it’s a start.”

“But I could’ve been better. I have to be better. From now on.”

Patrick sets down his fork and stands, crossing the tile until he’s beside Jonny. He gently massages his neck and kisses the top of his head, basking in the coconut scent of his shampoo.

“Your best,” Patrick murmurs, nipping at his ear, “is whatever gets you back home to me.”

They stay like that, Jonny relaxing little by little until he’s putty under Patrick’s hands.

“Better?” Patrick finally cedes, stretching out his fingers. Jonny grabs his hands lazily and kisses each knuckle.

“You always make me better.”

Patrick grins.

“Alright loverboy,” Patrick laughs, hauling Jonny up, “let’s get this cleaned up and maybe you can help me test out the new toys in Research & Development.”

Jonny clears the table in record time.

 

~

 

Patrick slides Jonny a shiny new Walther PPK with a sleek black handle. He inspects it curiously while Patrick watches closely, grin wide while he pulls off his work gloves. His goggles are pushed up, keeping his curls at bay as a makeshift headband. He’s still got red creases where they had rested over his cheeks.

“Stop staring at it,” Patrick says, “shoot it.”

Jonny gives him a look but Patrick just waves him toward the single-shooter range in the corner of the lab. Jonny readjusts his own goggles and gloves, then levels the PPK. He instinctively goes for the safety but is startled when he can’t seem to find it. He pulls the trigger, anyway, trying to figure out Patrick’s game, but the thing won’t go.

“Now try without the gloves,” Patrick hums, suddenly at his side. Jonny side-eyes him but wordlessly does as he’s told. As soon as his bare palms hit the black, the firearm seems to light up and buzz under his palms. He raises a questioning brow to Patrick but Patrick just looks pointedly at the target paper.

When Jonny pulls the trigger this time, it shoots off and hits right where Jonny had aimed.

“Now watch this,” Patrick glows excitedly, coaxing the firearm from Jonny’s hands and into his own. He nods his head sharply until the goggles slide back down over his nose.

The handle lights up again, just barely, but this time in an angry red. Patrick makes a show of pulling the trigger multiple times but each time is met with another angry flash of red and no bullets.

“Biometric,” Patrick explains, practically beaming, “encoded only to your unique palm print. Let an asshole try to shoot you with your own gun. Won’t happen.”

“Impressive,” Jonny grins, “wouldn’t have thought of it.”

“I know, that’s why I’m the Quartermaster,” Patrick smirks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t get too cocky.”

“You love it when I get cocky.”

Jonny doesn’t argue, but he grabs Patrick’s chin and kisses him until he’s effectively shut up.

 

~

 

They fall back into routine easily enough, and it’s almost like Jonny hadn’t been away for an entire month. Double-oh Ten joins them sometimes, barred from fieldwork for a while after concluding his near-death mission. He’s on indefinite homestand and more or less shoved at Patrick as a piss excuse of a Q-Branch aide.

Everyone involved knows that it’s really just Director Quenneville’s way of admitting that Sharp needs a babysitter and that no one is a better double-oh babysitter than Patrick.

Well, he _has_ had more than his fair share of practice.

Jonny and Sharp together are a handful, tearing up all of Patrick’s hard work at R&D and providing feedback where it isn’t necessarily wanted. They almost blow up Patrick’s lab with the discontinued exploding pen project and Patrick nearly kicks them out of Ops completely.

Sharp does this dumb puppy eye thing and Jonny looks like someone killed his basil plant.

“I’m an executive of the Special Clandestine Operations, you assholes, that shit won’t work on me.”

Jonny pouts harder.

“Fine,” Patrick groans, exasperated, “but we’re all taking a break from the lab. Let’s spar.”

The training center is well-equipped with proper padding and equipment. Patrick changes out of his wrinkled button-down and slacks quickly, choosing to change in the area completely opposite of Jonny, lest it start any funny business.

After all, Patrick is still vaguely upset about the pens and is determined to set things even by kicking Jonny’s ass on the mat. They’ve agreed to go first with Sharp officiating. Jonny might be taller and more practiced but Patrick does his best to keep up, shoulders broad and arms well-muscled.

Jonny grins wide, fists up. “Ready, Pat?”

“Always ready to smack ya down,” Patrick laughs, all mirth with no real promises.

“We’ll see about that, babe.”

Sharp groans from the sideline, “enough foreplay, save that for tonight.”

Jonny reddens and Patrick just laughs it off, haughtily agreeing.

“Alright,” Jonny huffs at Sharp, “then let’s go.”

“Go!”

Jonny starts by rushing him and trying to go for a grab but Patrick easily sees it coming and dodges well in advance. He has enough time to calculate a good undercut to Jonny’s stomach as he sidesteps him, making to grab him as he passes.

Jonny ducks, however, evading the grab but grunting from the punch. Patrick jumps back and readies up his fists, bouncing lightly. They continue to go at it, occasionally getting a good hit in, until Jonny has Patrick pinned to the mat, hovering over him.

“Tap out,” Jonny demands.

Patrick frowns and grumbles a “fat chance” before he suddenly uses his leg to flip them, effectively straddling Jonny’s abdomen. He grins wildly, sweaty curls bouncing in his face. He lets up for a split second to turn Jonny face-down, grabbing his arm and pinning it at the small of his back.

“Tap out,” Pat mimics in what’s supposed to be a “Jonny-voice.” Sharp rolls his eyes and calls the fight, not bothering to wait for Jonny to tap.

“Hey,” Jonny complains, “I didn’t tap yet.”

Sharp laughs, “we all know that in the real world he would’ve had you. Better luck next time, Double-oh Nineteen.”

“Yeah, better luck next time, Double-oh Nineteen,” Patrick singsongs, throwing Jonny a towel. The little shit.

Jonny takes it all in good stride, but especially when he performs the same flip on Sharp ten minutes later.

“I must’ve taught you everything you know, huh,” Patrick teases.

Once again, Jonny chooses not to counter, but to grab his chin and kiss him quiet instead.

 

~

 

It’s probably one of the worst days, productively, that Patrick’s had in a good while.

He doesn’t want to admit it because work itself has been painfully slow. He should be doing alright, comparatively. It’s not too often that he gets easier days, quieter days. Too often he’s thrown into high stress, high pressure situations. So today shouldn’t be so hard, today should be easy.

But it isn’t.

“That’s just how it goes, sometimes,” Jonny tells him. He’s hanging around headquarters to do some admin, today, but Patrick thinks he’s probably just here so he can keep tabs on him.

But Patrick isn’t having it. “It’s shouldn’t, I’m a professional, I should be above this.”

“You’re only human,” Jonny sighs, sits on the edge of Patrick’s desk. “It happens to everyone. Even the genius isn’t exempt.”

And, Patrick knows it’s true. He knows Jonny’s right, but it isn’t that easy to accept it, to wrap his head around it. Not everything can be perfect, but Patrick strives to come as close as anyone can get. And he’s not very close right now. It’s frustrating.

“I don’t want to be exempt,” is how Patrick expresses this.

Jonny chuckles, mirthless, shakes his head, too. “Not how that works, buddy.”

Setting his pen down, Patrick throws his head back and falls back into his chair. “Yeah, but I just can’t turn it off, Jonny.” He groans, covers his face with his arm. “I don’t know what’s wrong and I don’t know how to fix it. And that’s what I do, _fix_ things.”

“You do a _lot_ more than just fix things, Pat,” Jonny scoffs. “But hey, you’ve got this, okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, but his heart isn’t it quite in it. “I’ll be fine, I swear. Just a hump to get over.”

Jonny doesn’t believe him, not at all, but he doesn’t push him further. “Hey, we’ll get something nice for dinner, pop open some wine tonight. Something to look forward to, at least?”

Patrick smiles. It’s something, and that’s what counts. “Thanks, babe.”

From there, Jonny leaves Patrick be, goes to do his own work outside of Q-Branch. Patrick instantly misses him, but that’s another sign that he’s out of focus. There’s so much still left to do and Patrick can’t even think straight, can’t even get into work mode.

But he thinks about the promise of an evening with Jonny, just the two of them, and it spurs him back into motion.

It’s hard at first, but he keeps thinking of his goal. He’ll have to finish most of this in order to actually be able to be out of the office by dinnertime. So he gets busy, pushes through it, and eventually, gets over the hump.

He’s deep into some calculations when he hears his office door open behind him. He doesn’t look up. “A knock would be nice,” he mutters. “I’m busy here.”

“Too busy for me?” And that’s Jonny’s voice. Patrick still doesn’t look up, because momentum is everything and he’s almost done balancing his equation, but he smiles to himself. “One sec.”

“Take your time,” he hears Jonny say, and then there’s some rustling, paper bags, likely.

Patrick still won’t break his momentum, but he’s curious now. “Hm? What’s that.”

“Finish up,” Jonny says, “you’ll see.”

So Patrick lets Jonny do whatever it is he’s doing and focuses on finishing up until he has a proper stopping point. When he finally looks up, Jonny is waiting patiently on Patrick’s couch, food spread out on the coffee table.

“Oh,” Patrick blinks. “I thought we were going to get dinner?”

Jonny gives him a weird look. “It’s barely lunchtime.”

Patrick glances at the clock, it’s just past noon. Huh. That’s fair. He surveys the spread of fresh bagels, the container of cut fruit. There’s a fresh coffee — the real kind — steaming from a to-go cup alongside a bottle of orange juice.

“You sure it isn’t breakfast?” Patrick grins, gives Jonny a look.

Jonny returns a look just as ridiculous. “Like you’re complaining,” Jonny says. “It’s your favorite, don’t front.”

“You’re right,” Patrick grins, fond. “How do you know me so well?”

Popping open a container of cream cheese, Jonny shrugs. “Love, I guess, simple thing.”

It’s light, but Patrick’s heart flutters. Just a little.

  


~

 

“Quartermaster Kane,” Andrew greets, peeking his head into the lab. He doesn’t miss Jonny and Sharp sitting criss-cross on the ground, piloting drones into battle against each other using calculators. He wisely chooses to ignore them, instead directing his presence at the occupied soldering station in the corner.

“Shaw,” Patrick acknowledges without turning, absorbed in his work.

“Sir, Director Quenneville’s here. He’d like to discuss the Avlis case.”

Patrick pauses at the same time as Jonny. They both stand, share a glance, then look to Andrew expectantly.

“With all three of you,” Andrew clarifies. This time Sharp gives him a look but Andrew shrugs without further explanation.

“Thanks,” Patrick stands, prompting his agents to do the same, “you can send him in.”

Andrew nods and slips out the door, almost immediately replaced with the Director of the Special Clandestine Operations.

“Quartermaster Kane,” he nods his greetings casually, “Agents Double-oh Ten, Double-oh Nineteen.”

“Good afternoon, Director.”

“We have a new lead on the Avlis case,” he explains, “we have his partner in custody and have since located his main facilities. Everything’s pretty much in line for us to recover should he fall out of power. That said, we’re launching the kill order effective immediately.”

“Immediately?” Jonny balks.

Quenneville nods, “briefed immediately and deployed tomorrow at dawn.”

Sharp clears his throat, confused. “Sir, is there a reason for both Double-oh Nineteen and I to be there?”

“Ah,” Quenneville nods, “actually, I’d like for the Quartermaster to decide who deploys. It’s a Priority Four, quick and easy, you’ll be back in a few days.” He shrugs, then turns to Patrick. “There’s a bit of tech involved, and you’ve been with both of them for the past few days. I trust your assessment.”

“My assessment?”

“Obviously Double-oh Nineteen is more familiar with the case but it’s the perfect kind of case for Double-oh Ten to ease back into the field.” He goes to the door. “You can discuss it amongst yourselves. Swing by my office in half an hour.”

Quenneville goes quickly, leaving Jonny to stare down Sharp with hard determination.

“Calm down, Tazer,” Sharp rolls his eyes, “I get it, you can have the assignment. I don’t need to be _eased_ or any of that shit, anyway.”

“Hey, it’s _my_ decision,” but Patrick smiles, amused. “Jonny can go, though.”

Sharp looks partially affronted, but grins once Patrick gives him a look. “I’m just screwing with you, I don’t want it, anyway. This is Jonny’s case.”

And that’s true. Jonny’s been working on it almost exclusively since it first landed on their radar. Jonny seems to agree because he nods along enthusiastically

“Want the case, Jonny?”

“I guess,” Jonny glances at Sharp out of the corner of his eye. “Since there’s no one better to take it.”

“Hey,” Sharp interjects. “I _handed_ it to you, jerk.”

Patrick laughs. “Settle down, boys. We’ve got it settled.” He gets up and tosses Sharp a damp, tin-stained hand towel.

“Do me a solid and close out my station,” Patrick winks. “I gotta go meet with the Director. Come on, Jonny.”

“Like hell,” Sharp retorts, “you have thirty minutes!”

“Huh,” Jonny feigns, already halfway out the door, “did you hear something, Pat?”

Sharp doesn’t hear what Patrick says back because the sneaky little shit is already gone, leaving Sharp alone with his mess of a soldering station.

 

~

 

“We’ve got the rest of the day off,” Jonny hums, coming up behind Patrick and wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. He kisses Patrick’s temple, short and sweet, resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick presses back into him, leaning into him and chasing his warmth. “It’s already five, can’t say we’ve caught that much of a break.”

“That’s plenty of time to make some reservations and change into something nice. You know I love when you wear your dress slacks. The ones we had tailored?”

“Dress slacks? Where are you taking me, Mr. Toews?”

“Somewhere nice, somewhere you deserve, Mr. Kane.”

“Is that so?”

“I always want to give you what you deserve. And more, if I can.”

Patrick turns in Jonny’s hold until he can lean up and kiss him good and thorough.

“That’s silly,” he says when they finally part, voice raspy, “all I need is you.”

And it’s true. Patrick doesn’t think he’s felt something with that much conviction in his entire life. Hunger can’t rival the constant longing, the burning, to have Jonny near him. It’s like Jonny’s an essential part of his existence, so integral that he can’t help but feel like something’s off or missing when Jonny’s away for too long.

They live a life of espionage and all the sacrifice and horror that comes with, but at the end of the day, Patrick’s only human.

By the time they roll up to the restaurant and hand over Jonny’s gaudy Aston Martin DB9 (courtesy of Patrick’s excellent gift-giving skills) to the valet, night has fallen into a warm glow of stars and golden streetlights. Dressed in matching dinner best, Patrick knows they look absolutely incredible together. He’s confident and happy and content because everything is exactly as it should be.

Jonny grins at him when they sit, immediately ordering a bottle of wine so expensive, the zeroes have Patrick dizzy.

“What’s the occasion?” Patrick hums, vaguely suspicious.

“None, really. I do want to talk to you about something, though,” Jonny shrugs. Patrick’s known him long enough to see his tells. Jonny’s trying to play it off as nothing but he’s adjusted his wristwatch three times already. He’s nervous.

“Sure, what about?”

Jonny swallows. “Where do you see us going?”

Patrick stills and spares a cautious glance across the table where Jonny’s looking at him with wide eyes, so vulnerable and unguarded that it throws Patrick off-center. He’s so used to Jonny’s ice, his high walls and guard that comes guaranteed with his occupation. Patrick’s used to prying his way into Jonny’s emotions and making lots of guesses.

Patrick’s not used to this and it feels like everything stops, threatening to flip right into wrong.

“Jonny,” he says slowly, “if this is your way of breaking up with me—”

“No, no!” Jonny interrupts, accentuating wildly with his hands, “Not like that! More like… would you ever want to get married?”

Patrick blinks.

“Hypothetically!” Jonny adds, eyes going impossibly wider.

“Oh! Well,” Patrick starts, mouth open but the words not quite coming out, “yeah? I mean, of course I want to. I want to be with you for the rest of my life?”

“Oh, good,” Jonny relaxes, melting into this warm little smile that still sends butterflies to Patrick’s gut. “I want to, too,” he continues, “I want to spend forever with you.”

Patrick beams, “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Why’s it on your mind? I hope you already know you’ve got me completely fucked.”

“Of course I do,” Jonny scoffs, “but no reason in particular. Where’s your dream vacation spot? Just curious.”

Blinking again, Patrick has to take a moment. “Jonny,” he warns, “you’re not… are you doing what I think you are?”

Jonny shrugs with a little hum, that dumb little smile still going.

Patrick doesn’t answer right away, taking a sip from his wine and buttering his bread first. They order and receive their food, lighter conversation flowing easily between them.

“Mediterranean. An island, with a nice beach and pretty flowers,” Patrick says out of nowhere. Jonny is confused for a second until he understands. He nods, thoughtful.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

  


~

 

Jonny disentangles himself from Patrick well before the sun is up. He’s still lightly snoring, face so peaceful that Jonny doesn’t dare disturb him. He kisses him lightly, just once, on his temple, brushing the curls from his forehead with his thumb.

It’s just a few days. Jonny can handle a few days.

After that they’ll be sipping wine on a secluded Greek island where Jonny will formally promise his life to Patrick.

One assignment to finish what he couldn’t and then he can officially start being better for Patrick. Being better for _them_.

Jonny doesn’t take anything for breakfast, stomach churning in nerves he hasn’t felt in ages. He locks the door and steps into the black car already idling at the curb. The ride is quick and quiet, the driver only offering a short “good morning, Double-oh Nineteen,” when he slides in. The SCO is just as quiet and dark, the majority of its operatives still home for the night. Jonny takes long strides to Dispatch, gets his head in the game, gets focused.

The lights are already on so Jonny doesn’t even look when he kicks open the door, immediately hangs his coat without a glance.

“Good morning, Andrew,” he says as he toes off his shoes to trade for the almost identical standard issues waiting at his locker.

“Andrew’s still sound asleep. You’ll have to make do with me.”

Jonathan whips around so fast. “Patrick?”

“Beat ya here,” he smiles sleepily, rubbing an eye with a pale wrist. “Come on, Jonny. Let’s get you outfitted.”

Patrick helps him undress, slow and just a little sensual, but not much else. He slides his hands under Jonny’s shirt, tracing his abs and his chest until Jonny raises his arms and lets Patrick slide it over his head. He undoes Jonny’s belt and slacks with practiced, familiar ease. Jonny shimmies out of them obediently until he’s in nothing but his socks and briefs.

Patrick gets him into a button down, working the buttons from top to bottom as Jonny steps into the new slacks, freshly pressed grey ones in a European cut. They’re more form-fitting, tighter over Jonny’s hips, which Patrick lets himself enjoy with a quick brush over the full globes of Jonny’s ass.

Jonny smirks but doesn’t let him go further, batting away his hands and stepping out of reach in order to shrug on his sport coat, a tawny brown color that Patrick thinks brings out his eyes.

“Lemme see your wrist,” Patrick murmurs, rummaging over his desk until he finds a clear box holding a thin silver watch. It’s not as decorated as Jonny’s normal watch but it’s similar in style, reminiscent of the ones that Patrick usually picks for him.

“Does it do anything?” Jonny isn’t ever subtle about his love for little gadgets. Patrick knows it’s only partially because he makes them; it’s mostly because Jonny is an overgrown child who likes shiny toys.

Patrick grins, taps the single dial on the side. “It tells the time.”

Jonny groans.

“I’ll warn you,” Patrick hums, retreating to fetch a briefcase for Jonny, “the alarm _is_ a little loud. If you know what I mean.”

As if on cue, there’s a chime from Patrick’s own wrist, the screen of his smartwatch lighting up.

“That’s your ride,” he explains apologetically, “all your mission details are in your briefcase. Andrew’s team will be handling you. Your comm should be active by the time you land.”

Jonny grabs Patrick’s hands and pulls him in until they’re flushed together, Jonny’s lips pressed to Patrick’s forehead tenderly. Patrick leans up and nuzzles their noses together until Jonny gives in and brings their lips close, slotting them together innocently, tender and soft.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips still close enough to brush over Patrick’s.

“I’ll see you soon, Jonny. I love you, too.”

 

~

 

The radio is blaring in the background, set to whatever default pop station it was set to by its previous user. Patrick mostly just wants it for the background noise, bopping his head to the beat and swinging his swivel chair with a squirm of his hips. He’s busily typing away, hacking away at the security firewalls on MI6, carefully covering his tracks as he murmurs along to the lyrics, “ _comin’ for the king, that’s a far cry, ahhh_.”

He doesn’t notice the door creak open, too entranced by the constantly-shifting algorithms, applying pressure at every memory leak until it breaks into a segmentation fault that he can machete away with a couple of runs.

“Quartermaster—”

“Busy.”

“It’s an emergency—”

“Andrew, I’m _busy_.”

“It’s Double-oh Nineteen,” Andrew blurts, desperate.

Patrick freezes. “Andrew, patch this wall, clean the tracks. What station is Jonny on?”

“Originally on Delta but they’ve transferred it to Alpha.”

Patrick swallows, choking out a quick thanks as he runs through Q-Branch. Alpha is his main stage. He hasn’t been there since the day he almost lost Sharp.

Patrick is running up the steps to the Alpha Station two at a time when Hinostroza stops him briefly to slip a headset over his ears. The young Chief of Staff has been a godsend since his hire. Patrick doesn’t even need to prompt him to fill him in.

“Shit’s hit the fan,” is what he starts with.

Patrick gives him a look, demanding he expand, but holds as he adjusts the headset mic and speaks into it at the same time.

“Double-oh Nineteen, can you hear me? This is Quartermaster Kane signing on.”

Hinostroza continues then, keeping pace with Patrick while busily working at a tablet.  “Double-oh Nineteen was about to take out Avlis from a half mile distance. He was equipped with the M2010-ESR—”

_“Pat? Roger, I’m here.”_

“Status?”

_“Evading. Requesting an escape route.”_

“—on the roof of what we assumed to be an abandoned warehouse. He was spotted by armed hostiles and—”

“On it, give me a sec.”

 _“I don’t really have a sec—”_ There’s a wave of gunfire that drowns him out.

“—is currently attempting to escape. We don’t know the hostiles’ affiliation but we’re inferring they’re associated with Avlis.”

Patrick nods his thanks to Hinostroza, who goes to recollect Andrew. It’s all hands on deck, Jonny’s Priority Four assignment skyrocketed to Priority One. All other missions have been put on hold and Patrick’s going to need all of his proteges at his side.

Settled over the main Table, Patrick calls up a hologram constructed of the building’s floor plans and overlays the infrastructure. He spins it with the wave of a hand, absently biting his lip in concentration.

“Is Shaw back yet?”

“Yessir.” He appears beside him immediately.

“The electric system is live. Blow the whole thing in exactly… eighty-eight seconds.”

“Roger,” Andrew says, already settled at a monitor off to the side.

“Jon, listen to me. There’s a door to the balcony on the south wall.”

_“I see it… I can get to it.”_

“There’s a fire escape that’ll take you to the river.”

 _“Got it_.”

“Agent Leddy, give me the CCTV feeds on Monitor Three.”

“Yessir.”

“There’s a maintenance hatch at the bottom that’ll take you to the subway tunnels.”

_“Okay?”_

“I’m blowing the whole damn building. It’s crawling in hostiles. Use the subway tunnels to take shelter from the blast.”

 _“Thanks, Pat_.”

“Oh and you’re on a time crunch.”

“Agent Shaw, time until detonation?”

“Seventy-four seconds.”

“You have a little bit more than a minute. Work fast.”

_“Goddamit, Patrick.”_

There’s movement on Monitor Three and Patrick curses, watching an organized troop of at least ten armed men march into the building's main entrance.

“Hurry, there’s another wave of hostiles on their way, about ten seconds.”

_“I’m at the door, don’t worry.”_

“Tee-minus thirty seconds, sir.”

Patrick exhales a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. It’s just enough time for Jonny to clear.

_“Fuck!”_

“Jon, you alright?”

_“There’s a child in there, Pat. I have to get him out.”_

Patrick blinks.

“Agent Double-oh Nineteen, this is an executive order to evacuate without any civilian recovery. I repeat, this is an executive order.”

_“I’m sorry, Pat, I can’t—”_

“Agent Toews,” Patrick growls, “this is an executive order.”

_“What’s my time?”_

“Fifteen seconds, sir,” Andrew pipes up from his monitor.

“Fifteen tops. So get your ass out of there. It’s an order, Agent.”

 _“Hey there,”_ Jonny sounds soft and distant, having reached the child, _“come on, we have to go now, trust me, kiddo, we have to leave.”_

“Shaw, Leddy,” Patrick shouts, “postpone detonation.”

“That’s impossible, sir—”

“ _Try_ , Andrew,” Patrick snaps, hands flying across keyboards, running back and forth between multiple monitors. “that’s an order.”

“Agent Toews, you need to evacuate the premises immediately.”

“Four seconds.”

_“We can’t make it to the tunnels.”_

“Three seconds.”

“Just get out of there. Just get out of the building.”

“Two seconds.”

_“Patrick, I just want you to know I lo—”_

“One second.”

“Stop that. Just get the fuck out of there.”

“Detonation complete.”

_“. . .”_

“Agent Toews?”

_“. . .”_

“Jonny?!”

_“. . .”_

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Quartermaster?” Andrew prods cautiously. Leddy shoots him a sharp look and Andrew immediately shuts up, sheepish. Patrick ignores them, preoccupied with the clench in his chest and the awful feeling crawling up his throat.

He can’t take his eyes off Monitor One, where Jonny’s vitals and tracker had cycled vivaciously in long waves. They hadn’t gone flat, not once, but the whole thing had flashed and replaced the colorful waves with gray “NO SIGNAL” blocks, repeating over and over on the screen.

He barely makes it to the trash can, gasping thinly for air between each wretch. He doesn’t know when Sharp comes in or when his staff files out but eventually it’s just the two of them, Sharp rubbing his back while Patrick hacks up clear fluid.

“You’re done,” Sharp decides, forcing Patrick to sit up, holding a water bottle to his lips. “Sip.”

Patrick lets him, lets him position him. It’s a daze where everything feels numb and he can’t stop thinking about the static-y sound that replaced Jonny’s comm. It’s a buzz on a loop that he can’t stop, can’t quiet. The monitors have long been shut down but that awful, awful noise continues.

“Come on, Kaner,” Sharp whispers, somewhere distant that echoes in the back of Patrick’s head, “let’s get you home.”

Patrick doesn’t really remember what happens in the first twenty-four hours after losing Jonny. He doesn’t feel sadness or grief. It doesn’t quite hit him. Hell, Jonny had just come back from a month-long assignment with limited contact. It hasn’t even been seventy-two hours since he saw him last. Kissed him last. Heard him say “I love you” last.

It’d be even less if Patrick had just _let_ him.

“Eighty-eight,” Patrick swallows some time later, nestled on his and Jonny’s living room couch. The same couch they’d fucked on just days earlier, dinner forgotten and left for cold in favor of passion-fueled impulses.

“Hm?” Sharp looks up from his perch on the armchair. Patrick doesn’t know if he’s been assigned to look over him or if he’s just there as a friend. He doesn’t question it.

“I set it for eighty-eight seconds,” Patrick murmurs, “I’m the one who set the time. If I had just given him fifteen more—”

“Stop it, Patrick,” Sharp snaps, “you couldn’t have known he’d go back. You couldn’t have known there was civilian.”

“A _kid_ , Sharpy, not just a civilian. You know Jonny. He couldn’t just leave some innocent _kid_ there.”

“But you didn’t know.”

“I should’ve accounted for like... variance.”

“No,” Sharp says seriously now, “if you had added five seconds and Jonny did manage to make it to the tunnels, that second wave of hostiles would have caught up.”

“Then I could’ve found a drone or something. Hacked into it. Disabled their firearms. Short-circuited their comms—”

“Look, Kaner. You can’t focus on what _could_ have happened. It happened. You have to focus on what comes next.”

Patrick doesn’t answer for a while, stares at the toaster where a half-finished bag of bagels is propped haphazardly at its side. He inhales once then exhales slowly, shakily.

“I’m not sure I can focus on a future without Jonny in it.”

Now it’s Sharp’s turn to go mute. He paces around the kitchen almost aimlessly until he settles in front of the liquor cabinet with a glass of ice in one hand. He wisely passes over Jonny’s whiskey and settles for rum. He settles back in the armchair and takes hefty sips. He doesn’t offer it to Patrick.

“He’s not confirmed dead, Kaner. You know that.”

“Don’t do that,” Patrick hisses, “you can’t _do_ that to me. In the next twelve hours they’ll deploy a recovery team that will find nothing but his melted skull that’ll be so goddamn fucked that they’ll have to identify him from his molars.” He rubs his hands over his face. “You can’t build me up when we both know I’m just going to come crashing down all over again.”

Sharp swallows thickly around the last of his drink.

“That’s the most likely case, yes. But if it’s not? You have to pull yourself together enough to function and get your ass to Ops. Because if anyone can find Jonny? It’s gonna be you.”

Patrick swallows darkly.

Sharp’s right.

 

~

 

Patrick allows himself the rest of the day and subsequent evening to drink himself into a stupor under Sharp’s watchful supervision. He vaguely remembers a hazy bagel — not nearly buttered enough nor conversational enough — being shoved into his mouth and a couple bottles of gatorade. He doesn’t remember crawling into his bed ( _their_ bed, he corrects, as soon as he sees the picture on the nightstand), but the packet of ibuprofen and the bottle of water assure him he must’ve had help.

The headache isn’t so bad. Patrick’s had worse hangovers, back when they were all much younger and blindly diving into their careers. Back when he’d first met Jonny. Back when he’d come home from his first and only field mission, followed by night terrors and residual fears that he’d drink away until they left him alone for the night.

He can tolerate a little hangover.

Sharp probably shouldn’t have let him have his little pity-party but Patrick’s gotten it out of his system. It’s a new day and Patrick’s determined to keep his poker face on and his emotions on lock.

It’s not time to be Patrick Kane. It’s time to be the Quartermaster. It’s what Jonny needs and Patrick will always do his best to be what Jonny needs.

So Patrick marches into Ops Headquarters with Sharp — who is still exuding an excess of mothering instincts — at his heels.

“Quartermaster Kane,” startles the boy stationed at a large desk on the executive floor. “Er, I can’t say anyone expected you to come in today.”

“Morning, Hartman,” Patrick nods but doesn’t smile, a determined frown securely plastered over his features. “As much as I’d love to take the day off, I think I have a search and recovery team to lead.”

Hartman studies him for a moment and glances at Sharp, who shrugs unhelpfully.

“Alright then,” the boy says, stretching to open a drawer behind his desk until he procures a manila folder, “here’s the brief. Vin— er, _Hinostroza_ is already down there.”

Patrick raises a brow in question but abandons it when Hartman hands him the folder. He starts going over it immediately, murmuring a distracted “thank you” while he walks off. Sharp rolls his eyes and makes to follow him but pauses first, looking Hartman up and down.  

“I’ll let _Vinnie_ know you said hi,” he grins, catching up to Patrick and effectively avoiding the protests that Hartman sputters.

“Don’t tease him,” Patrick scolds, a little too seriously. He’s flipping through the file.

“Remind you too much of yourself, huh?” Sharp smiles.

Patrick opens his mouth to sass him back but then he freezes, skimming a page with Jonny’s employee picture on it. Sharp backpedals immediately, softens up and rests a gentle hand on the small of Patrick’s back.

“We’ll find him,” he swallows, “we always do.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Patrick,” Jonny pleads, his heart pounding in the back of his throat, choking him up, “I just want you to know I love you.”

There’s a loud boom from under the floor and Jonny knows his time is up. It’s just the beginning because pretty soon the booms are inching closer and closer, louder and louder, eventually drowning everything out. Unable to shout directions at the boy, he hauls him over his shoulder with little resistance and makes a run for it.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jonny had stationed himself a solid nine-hundred yards from Avlis and his men. He’d personally vetted this location. Nobody should’ve seen him. Nobody should’ve been here.

Avlis should've been dead by now. Jonny should’ve been packed and getting on a plane home by now.

Instead, he’s running through smoke with a child while the floor gives out from under them. It’s a miracle he makes it out the door and to the balcony Patrick had marked for him. But the fire escape is (quite ironically) ablaze at its base and covered in armed assailants otherwise. They spot him immediately and open fire. Jonny attempts to dodge a shot that whizzes past his ear, just barely grazing his earlobe, as he dives for cover. He glances over the edge.

The river is a full three stories down and debris is clattering down in loud splashes but it’s his only option. He grabs the boy’s hand and has him cover his nose, squeezes it once and hopes it gets his point across.

He takes a deep breath.

Then he jumps.

 

~

 

Perhaps the debris isn’t all too bad because the water is tumultuous enough that it doesn’t hurt as much as it could when Jonny hits the surface. It still shocks him enough that swimming back up with the full weight of the child isn’t the easiest task in the world. He groans at the numbing sting crawling up his legs but kicks as hard as he can.

The pain is enough to force a good yell. One that releases any and all air he had managed to save up.

Desperate and lungs burning, legs threatening to give out, Jonny drags the two of them to the surface, where he immediately gasps and sputters conspicuously loud. He spares a glance at the kid and curses when he realizes he’s unconscious.

A quick glance around, Jonny realizes there is only one accessible side of the river, the other thrashing against a concrete wall too high to climb. Back toward the warehouse, the entire shore is lined in armed riflemen, all with their weapons cocked in his direction

“Fuck.”

He raises his arms, one as best he can while holding up the boy, and slowly makes his way to shore. He holds up the boy.

“Help him,” Jonny spits, staring down one of the gunmen with the dirtiest look he can muster. The gunman squints at him but nods one of his buddies toward the boy. With plenty of men still aimed at Jonny, they spare two to haul them both out of the water, immediately taking care of the boy.

It’s the last thing Jonny sees before one of them flips his rifle around and whips the butt at the side of his head.

There’s a brief moment where an image, a thought, of Patrick flashes before everything goes dark.

So much for being better.

 

~

 

Jonny wakes up groggy and feeling dirty both inside and out. There’s pressure in his head and a throbbing throughout his whole body. He tries to stretch his limbs but finds himself effectively tied down to a chair by his wrists and ankles. He swallows drily, mouth cottony. Curious, Jonny tries to rock the chair in hopes of breaking it off with a fall, but finds it bolted into the ground.

Whoever’s got him doesn’t mess around.

“Ah, there he is.”

Jonny can’t pinpoint where the voice is coming from but he knows it’s from somewhere in the room. The light is so fucking blinding and he can’t coax his eyes to open fully, crusted shut at the corners. He can’t get anything to focus quickly enough.

“Take it easy, Agent,” he sneers, “or do you prefer Toews?”

Jonny keeps his face stone cold, refusing to react.

“You thought you could try and leech off me for as long as you have without anyone noticing? Perhaps you’re not quite cut out for espionage. It’s not really working for you.”

Still glaring icily, Jonny doesn't budge.

“I’m just curious as to what you all find interesting about my operations out here, hm? Care to share?”

Nothing.

“Alright,” Avlis sighs, poorly hiding his amusement, “we’ll see how long that lasts.” He turns to a couple of burly guards near the door. “Lock him up.”

Jonny doesn’t go down without a fight. He knows he’s trapped and that struggling is futile but he does manage to give one of the assholes a bloody nose. He keeps that victory to himself, feeling just a tiny bit more triumphant than he should.

 

**~**

 

Jonny doesn’t know how long he’s been here. He’s lost count of how many times the sun has come and gone. He’s lost count of how many times the guards have come for him and tied him to steel chairs. He’s lost count of the few times he’s been brought food or water, lips chapped and body weak.

He’s so lightheaded and miserable that when he sees the boy, the same one from the warehouse with the flouncy orangey-gold curls, he concludes that he must be a hallucination.

“You’re not really there,” Jonny tells him, mouth dry and words rough. “I know you’re not.”

The boy doesn’t say anything but he furrows his brow and carefully comes closer, steps light and carefully placed, avoiding any puddles or particularly dirty spots. He’s barefoot, clad in a threadbare tee-shirt with a hole in the side. But despite the rags, he’s squeaky clean and he smells like strawberries.

He reminds Jonny so much of Patrick that it hurts his heart. Obviously the boy is much younger than any Patrick he’s ever known. He’s scrawny and underfed but his features are still soft and rounded at the corners. He’s got the same unruly curls that Patrick allows to run wild, but his nose is a little wider, his eyes a little rounder. They’re brown, mirroring Jonny’s instead of the familiar greyish blue that Jonny associates with Patrick.

“You look just like him,” he still says, nodding as the boy crouches in front of the bars of his cell. “It’s the hair.”

Mini-Patrick kind of smiles, one corner of his mouth turning up while he brushes a hand through said hair. With his arm raised, Jonny notices the dark bruises on his wrists.

“Your wrists,” he says, “what did they do to you?” Jonny shifts until he’s up against the bars. He reaches one hand through, palm up. “Can I see?”

Biting at his bottom lip — _god he’s so much like Patrick_ — the boy hesitantly drops his wrist into Jonny’s hand. He handles it carefully, gently tracing the edges with his thumb.

“You think you can find some ice?”

Mini-Patrick nods.

“Good, that’s good. As soon as you can, you gotta take a bag or a cloth and fill it with ice. Put that on here and it’ll help, especially with the pain,” Jonny murmurs. He slides his hand back until he’s holding Mini-Patrick’s hand. He gives it a light squeeze and smiles as best he can.

The boy doesn’t look as scared and flighty as he had moments before and Jonny’s beginning to think he’s not quite a hallucination.

“Are they keeping you here? Did they kidnap you?”

He looks up, eyes a little wide and lip a little wobbly. Jonny immediately feels terrible, especially when the boy nods, confirming his suspicions.

“How long have you been here?” Jonny presses.

The boy shrugs. Jonny opens his mouth to say something but then the boy sticks out his tongue and looks away, concentrating. He finally holds up one finger, toggling between lifting and putting down a second.

Jonny understands, his heart clenching.

“Avlis?”

Crossing his arms over his chest protectively, Mini-Patrick nods, face stony and cold again.

“You poor thing…” Jonny sighs, resting his head against the bars. The boy does the same, cementing their solidarity. He exhales all at once, causing the curls hanging over his forehead to bristle.

They stay like that for a while, wordless but full of confessions, dreams, and wistful wishes. Jonny can’t help but feel for this little boy. He’s just a kid, small and frail, scared and lonely. Jonny wants to save him, wants to help him, wants to protect him.

He wants to take all the bad away so he never has to see that sad face ever again.

That’s what sends a pang to Jonny’s heart, not for the boy this time, but instead for his own Patrick, the one waiting for him back home. Jonny knows him well enough to know what he’s probably doing. He’s probably fought his way into Ops, demanding he lead the recovery team. He probably ripped at his whole department, arguing that he’s the best at what he does and that no one else would be competent enough to do this right.

But Jonny knows Patrick well enough to know that he probably hasn’t been sleeping well, if at all. He probably hasn’t been home if he can help it, opting to sleep on the couch in his office. He must have Andrew putting in overtime to scan CCTV and hack away at firewalls wherever he deems appropriate.

Jonny just hopes that Sharp is keeping him fed and forcing him to nap whenever he can. Patrick may be one of the brightest minds in the entire world but he was never the best at taking care of himself. But Jonny trusts Sharp enough to know he’s covered on that end.

For the sake of everyone, Jonny just hopes that Patrick finds him soon.

 

* * *

 

The rescue team leaves the site of the warehouse empty-handed; with neither Jonny nor any Jonny-shaped remains.

Privately, Patrick is devastated. The first forty-eight hours are the most crucial. He’s done everything in his power to make them count but he can’t help but beat himself up for his lapse in control on the first day. If he had just kept his head on straight like he was supposed to—

“Patrick?” It’s Sharp, resting a hand on his shoulder.

It’s the final straw.

“Fuck off, Double-oh Ten,” he says harshly, shrugging him off, “I’m fine, okay? Let me do my damn job.”

“Woah there, Peeks,” Sharp steps back, hands up in surrender, “I’m just a little worried. It’s been ten days and you’ve been working nonstop since. When’s the last time you were even home?”

Patrick glares at him incredulously. “You’re joking right? How can I go home when my _home_ is missing and probably in danger if not already dead?”

Sharp winces. “Come on, Patrick, don’t be like that.”

“ _Don’t be like that_? Really, Sharp? It’s Jonny. Don’t you get it? I can’t stop until I find him. I can’t. Because if I can’t find him then what’s left, huh?” Patrick feels the heat of his anger rise in his chest. “What do I have left without him?”

“You can’t find him if you’re not working at your best. And you’re not at your best if you’re not taking care of yourself. Just be smart,” Sharp pleads, sincere.

Patrick levels him with a hard look, defiant, petulantly shaking his hair out of his face. Sharp stares right back, refusing to back down.

But eventually, Patrick’s face finally falls. Closing his eyes, Patrick exhales slowly as he deflates in full. Sharp sighs, scooping him in by the neck and holding him close until he stops trembling.

“Watcha feelin’ for dinner?” Sharp murmurs, still rubbing Patrick’s back soothingly, “Steak? Sushi? We can pick it up on the way home.”

Patrick pulls away and bites his lip, mildly hesitant. “Actually… you think we can pick up some bagels?”

Sharp pretends he doesn’t notice Patrick’s watery eyes or the sniffle he tries to stifle with an uncomfortable swallow. “Yeah. ‘Course we can.”

There’s a sharp knock on the door.

Patrick tears away quickly, rubbing at his eyes and patting out the wrinkles on his shirt.

“Come in,” he rasps, quickly coughing to clear his throat.

The door open to reveal Director Quenneville, briefcase and coat in hand. His mouth is tight and grim, immediately sparking red flags.

“Sir,” Patrick says tightly.

“Quartermaster Kane,” the director says almost apologetically, “I’ve decided that it’s in everyone’s best interest to put you on sick leave. Just for the weekend.”

“Sir!” Patrick stiffens, “that’s insane, I’m in the middle of a search and rescue—”

“About that,” the director shifts uncomfortably, “I know you know the policy, Patrick. If there isn’t a substantial lead in the next ten days we have to presume him—”

“Don’t say it,” Patrick seethes.

“This is exactly why you need to take time off,” Quenneville cuts sharply, “you’re too emotionally attached to this case. You shouldn’t have led it in the first place. I’ve already given you enough leeway.” He levels Patrick with a head look. “Your leave is effective immediately. It’s an order, not a request.”

Patrick sighs but doesn’t give up quite yet. “Who will be leading the case while I’m gone?”

“Your regular team. Agent Andrew Shaw. Assisted by Agent Leddy and Agent Bollig.”

“And Agent Saad?”

“He’s taken over the live Double-oh missions and I think it’d be best to keep him there.”

Patrick nods, “that’s good,” he grimaces but nods again, conclusively, “fine, I’ll go home for the weekend but I’m coming back Monday morning and I can’t say I’ll go home after that.”

“Patrick,” Sharp this time, tone warning.

The director raises his hand to silence them both. “Fine then, but try to keep your mind off the case. Visit your mother, go to the lake. Something.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and the director sighs.

“Double-oh Ten,” he turns authoritively to Sharp, “I’d like you to accompany him, make sure he stays out of trouble and takes care of himself.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Patrick whines.

“Yes, sir. I can do that,” Sharp ignores him.

Patrick groans. Jonny’s missing and he needs him but instead he has to deal with _this_.

Yeah, he’s gonna need a bagel.

**~**

 

Patrick gets his bagel (plus a dozen more. Well. Plus eleven more in a bag for later and a poppy seed bagel for Sharp) but it doesn’t taste as good as it should. It’s muddled by the pit in his stomach, churning longingly for Jonny. He glares meanly at the piece in his hand, almost expecting it to talk back and explain itself.

Eventually, he stands down and eats it without a word from either party.

Sharp’s already settled in the living room, flicking through his phone while the television plays HGTV reruns in the background. He’s not really paying attention, just lazily passing time. Patrick’s thankful for him. He knows he’d be here with or without orders.

Once upon a time, Patrick had been half-asleep on the couch, head rested in Jonny’s lap. Sharp had sat in the same chair that he’s sitting in now, probably still fucking around on his phone. They thought Patrick had already fallen asleep when they brought it up. When Jonny had asked Sharp to promise to take care of Patrick in case anything were to ever happen to him.

At the time, the hypothetical was kind of romantic and made Patrick smile a little. Right now? It suffocates his heart.

“Hey Sharpy,” Patrick says quietly, turning out the lights in the kitchen, “you good for the guest room?”

“Yeah, I’m good. You headed to bed?”

Patrick nods. “But I’ll grab you some sheets first.”

“No, I can get them—”

“Sit down,” Patrick scoffs, rolling his eyes, “I’m not made of glass, I can do basic shit like being a proper host.”

Sharp surrenders, “yeah, yeah, you spoil me, Peeks.”

Satisfied, Patrick goes to the linen closet where he knows the extra bedding is on the top shelf. It’s high enough that Patrick stretches to reach it, groping around blindly until he can tug down the box.

Except when the box comes down, so does the pile of loose pages, apparently stashed on top.

“Fuck,” Patrick hisses. He crouches down to recollect them but freezes as soon as he picks up a brochure.

There’s a picture of a beach on the cover, with blue-green water that fades into clear, bright blue skies. There’s the name of a travel agency lettered across the top and a map of Greece faded into the background.

Patrick almost forgets how to breathe.

He turns to the rest of the papers, carefully picks them up one at a time and inspects them in full. They’re all related to travel agencies; destination wedding planners, honeymoon packages, resort brochures, vacation guidebooks. It’s all there, covered in Jonny’s chicken scratch with circles and arrows.

Patrick’s got most of them back into a neat pile when he sees it: a plain yellow sticky note with an arrow pointing from the words “need a box” to a sleek silver band safety pinned to the top.

The ring.

Surrounded by the wedding and honeymoon papers, Patrick slumps to the ground, cheeks wet, until Sharp finds him there with the ring clutched tightly in his fist, held protectively to his chest.

  


**~**

 

“Come _on_ , Sharpy,” Patrick whines, “I just need to blow off steam. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up at home, bottling up my emotions. I won’t work, I promise, okay? Won’t even go to Q-Branch, won’t even look at Jonny’s case files.”

Sharp squints at him, sipping his coffee slow and calculating. “Don’t think you can outsmart me, Pat, I know what you’re doing.”

Childishly, Patrick groans and noisily drops his own mug into the sink. “Honest to god, look, boy scout honor,” he says twisting two fingers together and crossing his heart.

Sharp scoffs, amused. “You were never a boy scout. And you did it wrong anyway.”

“Seriously,” Patrick rolls his eyes, “I’m just antsy, I need to get out of my head. It’s the ring and those papers, Sharpy, come on. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Softening, Sharp sighs and (quietly) sets his mug in the sink. “Alright, for one hour. _One_. That’s it.”

 

~

 

They’re at the shooting range, all suited up and ready to go, within the next twenty minutes.

Patrick’s firing an MP5 that’s almost bigger than him. Sharp keeps trying to swap him out for an M9, the standard issue handgun, but he won’t budge, stubbornly dramatizing the kickback enough to shrug him away. Eventually, Sharp gives up and sets up in the adjacent lane, shooting off the M9 for himself.

Sharp finishes three of his own mags and glances at Patrick’s seemingly perfect target sheet. It’s exceptional for a standard shot, what with most of the holes easily in the x-ranges. But Sharp knows Patrick better than that. He’s seen him shoot targets with unreal precision, time and time again. For Patrick, shooting merely within the x-range, as opposed to the x-dot, is undoubtedly erratic.

He really needs to intervene.

“Alright,” he sets a hand on Patrick’s non-trigger shoulder and holds it firmer when Patrick tries to shrug him off. “That’s enough.”

Patrick over-exaggerates the process of standing down, clicking the safety on, and hauling the firearm into its carrier on the wall. He yanks off his muffs and lets them drop haphazardly to the ground.

They clang in a defiant echo that makes Sharp want to send Patrick to his room without dinner.

He keeps that thought to himself.

“What do you want,” Patrick bitches.

“You need to relax,” Sharp spits right back.

“I _am_ relaxed,” Patrick whines, “I’m _so_ relaxed. I’m the most goddamn relaxed person in the entirety of the SCO’s employ—”

“Patrick,” Sharp warns.

“—because guess what? I’m the only active agent in this organization who is currently not working on a case. Pretty fucking relaxing if you ask me.”

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” Sharp reasons, doing his absolute best to curb his anger, “which is why you need to cool the fuck down before you even think about picking up a lethal weapon again.”

Nuanced, Patrick says, “look, Double-oh Ten. I know your assignment is to literally babysit me but I really don’t need you to.”

Sharp sighs, “I’m not doing this as a Double-oh, Pat. If I were, we wouldn’t even be here. You know that. I’m doing this as your friend.”

Unphased, Patrick turns his chin up and wordlessly recollects his muffs and the MP5, along with two fresh mags, and restarts his aggressive fire.

This time, Sharp waits until Patrick presses the button to replace the target sheets and goes to reload. Then he tackles him, catching him off guard. He disregards the completely indiscreet bang of the MP5 falling heavily to the ground beside them.

“I know you’re a better shot than that,” is what Sharp whispers harshly right into his ear, “get out of your head and fix it.” He yanks him back up and shoves the gun in his hands.

Pissed, Patrick slings it and fires off in one defiant string, emptying the entire mag in one solid swoop. Sharp’s about to go off on him again, self-control slipping even further. But Patrick doesn’t reload. He rests the firearm at his side and levels Sharp with the most shit-eating grin he’s ever seen.

Sharp’s ready to start yelling but he freezes, mouth half-open, when he sees the targets. Despite the empty magazine that Patrick throws to the ground, there is only one bullet hole in Patrick’s lane. Right on the x-dot.

Well. Except for one more, calculatingly paced right on Sharp’s, too.

“Can’t fix what was never broken,” is all Patrick says.

Sharp is going to kill him.

 

~

 

“Y’know, we should probably still talk about it.”

“I’m engaged. That’s all there is to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

The little boy comes by often enough, sneaking away from the guards at just the right times to visit Jonny for a few stolen moments. Jonny’s warned him not to, fearing that he’ll get caught, but the boy had just smiled, in the soft little way he does, and shook his head, defiant.

 _Just_ like Patrick.

So after that, Jonny doesn’t argue, lets him come and go as he pleases without question. He’s been here long enough to know his way around. Jonny trusts him.

There’s one day, after a particularly rough session of interrogation, that Jonny’s just exhausted. Beaten and bloody and so fucking thirsty. He’s hungry, too, but every time he moves, his stomach churns with nausea and he immediately loses his appetite.

However, the boy comes around and brings a pair of oranges today, insistently holding the slices to Jonny lips until he dutifully swallows them down, slowly but surely. He only manages about half. The boy eventually lets up and eats the rest of the fruit himself. Jonny prefers it that way, anyway. He’s a scrawny thing, needs to eat as much as he can get.

The boy makes him drink, too, dribbling the water over his parched lips and drenching the front of his shirt. Once the bottle is done, the boy tugs at Jonny’s wet shirt until he lifts his arms and lets him remove it.

Carefully, the boy wads it up until he can press the cool, damp fabric to Jonny’s forehead, carefully patting away the grime and the blood. It’s unconventional but resourceful. Commendable and so reminiscent of how Patrick thinks, how his Quartermaster made his way to the top.

With a pang in his heart, Jonny leans into the cloth, pliant enough to let the boy do what he wants. It’s not much but it’s a kind gesture, the kind of thing that Jonny needs right now.

It makes him miss Patrick more than ever.

There’s not a moment that he doesn’t think of Patrick. As dumb and predictable and sappy as it sounds, as _cliche_ as it sounds, the thought of Patrick out there, waiting for him, worrying over him, is his motivation to make it through this. To survive. To prevent his suffering and make everything right again.

Jonny knows he has to survive, just because Patrick, somewhere out there, wants him to. Needs him to. Needs him to be there for him just as much as Jonny needs Patrick for himself. There’s so much left to do. So much more life to live out with him.

There’s a ring hidden in the linen closet that needs to be presented to Patrick.

Jonny can’t die yet. He can’t.

He tells the boy as much. “We’ll make it out of here, you know. I have to, for someone very special to me. You remind me of him, you know.”

The boy blinks at him, lightly scrubbing around the cut on Jonny’s cheek, only pulling away until he deems it sufficiently cleaned. He sits back on heels and looks at Jonny expectantly.

So Jonny expands, “you’re so much younger, of course, but you look just like him. And you have the same heart. Pure.”

It makes the boy smile, just a little. Jonny counts the small victories.

The boy continues to dab at Jonny’s injuries so he pauses and lets him do it, wincing as little as he can manage. Not that it phases the boy. It worries Jonny, knowing that he’s been through this before, isn’t surprised, knows what to expect.

It’s not just his Patrick that he has to break out of here for. It’s for this mini-Patrick, too.

Jonny’s reminded of why he joined the Service in the first place. To protect the innocent and defenseless. No matter what terrible nasty things that are done to him here, the worst they’ve done is steal the childhood, the _youth_ , from this boy. Who can’t fight back against Avlis’s goons. Who can’t make it out of here on his own.

Jonny needs to return for personal reasons, for Patrick’s sake. But he also has a sworn duty to uphold, and that includes saving this boy.

But for now, feeling broken and helpless, Jonny lets the boy take care of him. He decidedly distracts the both of them both with thoughts of Patrick. It’s kind of his default.

“He’s my fiance. Well. He’s going to be. Once you and me make it out of here. Sounds presumptuous, I know, but we talked about it right before I got stuck here. We’re supposed to go somewhere nice for the wedding. A real vacation.” Jonny trails off quietly, wistful. He thinks back to the  pamphlets and vacation catalogues hidden away with the ring.

He thinks about Patrick on a beach, lazily sipping on obnoxious fruity drinks. Warm skin glistening with sunscreen and a pair of douchey sunglasses balanced precariously in his sea-misted curls. His head is thrown back, content and carefree, letting the breeze whisper over him. He’s laughing or grinning or some combination of both. Because it’s Patrick. It’d be perfect.

Jonny doesn’t tell the boy the details but he tells him he’s supposed to be on a beach. The boy nods and sighs, like he feels the same exact sentiment. He unravels the shirt and shakes it out a couple of times, apologetically glancing at the dark stain now decorating the front.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jonny assures him, gently taking it from his hands. He slips it back over his head without hesitation, without any discomfort. It’s gross and far from ideal but he wants the boy to know he’s appreciated. That he did something good. That Jonny’s grateful.

“We’re going to make it out of here,” Jonny says, more determined than before, convincing himself more than the boy.

All the boy does is blink up at him, but Jonny has a feeling he doesn’t quite believe him.

“We will.”

Another look.

“I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Patrick can’t find him in time. Doesn’t find him in time.

True to his word, Patrick hadn’t gone home much after his leave. Every waking moment, every minute he could spare, had gone into finding Jonny. Working and working until he’d fall asleep right there, on the spot.

But it was all fruitless. Jonny-less.

Not enough.

There’s a memorial service, just as there’d be for any fallen soldier. Because at the end of the day, that’s all they are, soldiers. It’s simple enough, doesn’t reveal anything of his true position, his true work, his true prestige. Even now, after Jonny’s death, the goddamn SCO is full of secrets and lies.

Patrick gets it, he does. But he hates it more than anything else.

It’s these times he wishes he could trade it all in just to have Jonny back, just to have Jonny whenever he needs him. It’s selfish and childish, but sitting here all alone surrounded by people who just don’t understand, just don’t _get it,_ he’s a tiny bit irrational.

There’s an empty casket with the flag draped over it. It’s simple, with unspectacular wood, stained and glossed. It’s standard and cheap but it’s really something Jonny would’ve preferred, despite Patrick’s protests to throw his whole year’s pay at something nicer, something as beautiful as Jonny, as beautiful as his heart. Something he deserved.

But they weren’t married. Jonny’s brother — his stupid estranged brother, who barely even knew him — had overruled him.

The casket is empty of a body but it’s filled to the brim with all of Patrick’s dreams, his hopes, his love and his heart. It’s overflowing with the notions of a future; the sketches of their beachy wedding and the passions of their honeymoon, the dreams of beautiful children and a beautiful family, the notions of love and joy and contentment. The phantom feelings of Jonny’s touch, his fingers light on Patrick’s skin, his lips teasing on his own.

Every beat and every piece of Patrick’s heart. Buried six feet under in an overflowing — yet achingly empty — casket.

He tries to wipe the tears away without taking off his sunglasses.

That’s when Sharp finally intervenes, lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, murmuring strings of comforts in his ear. Patrick doesn’t hear them all, doesn’t really make them out. The words themselves aren’t the point, anyway. It does what it’s intended, eventually lulling Patrick to relax enough to get home.

Patrick continues to watch the service through the window of his cab, even as they weave through traffic and it eventually leaks into the distance. Small, quiet, unremarkable. Jonny-less.

Jonny deserved so much better.

 

~

 

It takes twenty-two hours for Patrick to have a breakdown, which, all things considered, is an impressively long time.

He’s sprawled over the kitchen floor, Jonny’s bottle of whiskey beside him, long emptied. Their picture’s there, too, the one from their nightstand. Miraculously unbroken where Patrick had inevitably dropped it when he’d slid down onto the floor in a sob.

It started with the fucking basil plant.

Which is what he tells Sharp between watery breaths on the phone. Gratefully, Sharp doesn’t ask for any further clarifications, just sighs and promises that he’s on his way and will be there soon.

He arrives soon enough and lets himself in, already long approved into the security system. It’s easy enough for him to find Patrick. Just follow the trail of the mess, follow the sound of sniffling and huffy little sobs.

He finds Patrick there, slumped on the kitchen floor, glaring up at the basil plant, which still sits contentedly on the window sill near the sink.

Sharp sighs.

“I’ve tried to take care of it,” Patrick sniffles in explanation, “but it just... it won’t… it’s browning! It’s not doing well. Without Jonny.”

With another sigh, gentler this time, Sharp crouches down, smooths Patrick’s hair out of his face and wipes at his tear-stained cheeks with his sleeve. He gingerly picks up the picture frame and the bottle and the rest of the random relics scattered about the floor.

Eventually, he picks up Patrick, too, tugging him up by his arms until they’re wrapped around him for support, just holding him for just a minute. Just to calm him down, just to keep him going.

Just to be something to remind Patrick that he’s not alone, that he’s still here. Patrick’s a lightning storm of emotions and Sharp’s just trying to ground him.

It works, eventually. He’s not sure how long it takes, but it works. Patrick’s able to stand on his own, breath normal and even, heart rate down to something acceptable. Once he’s deemed Patrick stable again, Sharp lets up. He pats him twice on the shoulders with both hands, then spins him toward his bedroom.

“Rest now, talk later.”

He goes down easy enough.

 

~

 

Patrick wakes up determined. And, arguably, in denial.

“Wake up, Sharpy,” he pokes him awake, “he’s not dead.”

Sleepily, Sharp blinks awake. “Huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Patrick says again, “he’s not dead. Jonny’s not dead.”

Sharp sits up. “Oh, Patrick—”

“No,” Patrick interrupts, “you’re not ‘oh patrick’-ing me. You’re gonna take me to the SCO and we’re gonna find him.

Sharp blinks.

“Go back to sleep, Patrick, it’s—” he pauses to glance at the clock, eyes widening. “Pat. It’s three in the morning.”

Patrick shrugs. “Please, Sharpy, I just... I have a feeling, alright? I just need to check some things over and then we can leave right away. I’m serious.”

Sharp kicks off his blanket.

No one can say “no” to Patrick Kane. Not when he’s set his mind to it.

 

~

 

Sharp brings his blanket because despite Patrick’s insistence that it’ll only take a minute, he knows full well that he’s be better off napping on the couch in Patrick’s office. It’s going to take a while, no matter what Patrick tells him.

It’s fine, he’s up anyway. Might as well make it count.

If anything, the stack of monitors in the Alpha Station are somewhat comforting, even after everything they’ve been through. It’s Patrick’s home station, it’s where he learned to be the best. It’s where he’s done his greatest work.

It’s where he lost Jonny in the the first place. It’s where he’s done his worst work.

But that’s the thing. If Patrick can save millions of people, save his home, save what’s left of the good in the world? He can save Jonny, too.

The SCO might’ve decided that he’s dead. But Patrick won’t accept it until he has proof. Tangible, undeniable proof.

Jonny’s out there somewhere. He can _feel_ it.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there, crouched over the keyboard, swiping over hologram after hologram. If he has to look at one more schematic without results, he thinks he’ll actually die right here in the middle of the SCO.

Patrick ends up angrily swiping the holograms away, layer by layer until there’s nothing left but the starting screen. He glares at it with the full force of his frustrations but it doesn’t budge, doesn’t say anything back. Just spins and spins and spins as if nothing is wrong.

Seething, Patrick tries to swing at it with a good hook, but his fist goes straight through the light structure, sending him off balance and tumbling to the ground.

He stays there for a moment, eyes closed and forehead pressed to the cool tile of his station. Focuses on breathing, in and out, steady. Gotta cool down, keep his head on straight. That’s the only way he’ll ever find Jonny.

There’s a beeping behind him, piercing and shrill.

Patrick’s back on his feet in an instant, immediately following the sound to its source. It’s Monitor Two, highlighting a section of a map in a loud red outline.

The outline is filled in black, a choppily removed piece from the greens and browns of the surrounding terrain. There’s a bit of blue around the edges of the screen and Patrick’s heart sinks.

He zooms it out until he figures out exactly where it is.

An island. In the fucking Mediterranean. It’d only be a couple of hours by air, a few more by water, to get there from Izmir.

That has to be it. That has to be Jonny.

Patrick scoffs. That isn’t exactly what he meant by dream vacation.

So much for that honeymoon.

 

* * *

 

It’s apples today.

The boy brings two and tries to feed him both, but Jonny refuses the second until the boy huffs and settles down, cross-legged and comfortable. Slowly but methodically, he take small bites with little crunches until the thin of the core is the only thing left.

He waits patiently, looking expectantly up at Jonny, who is lounged against the stone wall of his grimy cell, head resting as comfortably as possible to favor his lesser bruised side. Jonny’s tired, he’s always tired now, getting weaker and weaker with every passing day. But he does his best to put up face. For the boy’s sake.

Someone needs to be strong here.

But even finished with their fruit, the boy stays, says nothing, and waits patiently for Jonny to say something.

“The story of The Spy, right?” Jonny smiles softly, already knows that the boy will nod once, slight, and continue to wait patiently for what’s become more or less his bedtime story.

Jonny closes his eyes recounts the story of a young secret agent, not a field agent, but someone even more important for saving the world. He’s a tech genius, with a head full of curls and a young face, but a mind that outdoes any other out there.

He’s tells the boy about how The Spy goes on a mission, heads into the field, even though he isn’t used to it, isn’t comfortable with it. He tells about how The Spy completes his mission and sacrifices himself, despite knowing fully well that his agency won’t come to save him.

He tells him about how The Spy manages to break himself out, even when he’s been hurt and beaten down. About how The Spy never gave up, how he persevered and pushed and pushed until he made it. Until he came home.

It’s pleasant, to the point that both Jonny and the boy relax into the story and lose track of their surroundings. Until.

“Hey, what are you doing here, brat?”

It’s a booming echo that bounces over the stone walls and resonates darkly throughout the cell. Jonny’s face goes stark white but the boy’s goes even whiter, turned terrified and shaken in an instant.

“Shit,” Jonny swears, scrambling to get up.

“This is my fault,” Jonny shouts toward the guard, who is now stalking towards them, “I baited him in. Let him go.”

The boy is still frozen, completely still, stuck in place.

“Go,” Jonny whispers, “please, I’ll handle it.”

That seems to snap the boy out of it. Eyes welling with tears, scared as ever, he sets his jaw and vehemently shakes his head, crosses his arms.

He looks so young and it makes Jonny even more set to protect him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can take them, okay? Just go.”

Another shake of the head, even more determined.

“Please,” Jonny tries, voice cracking. “Please just let me.”

The boy refuses to budge, save for another shake of the head.

Jonny opens his mouth to say something again, to argue more, but there’s a clank of the door yanked fully open and it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s too late. The boy takes a deep, deep breath, but keeps his same defiant face on.

God, Jonny’s so very proud of him. But much, much more terrified for him.

“It’s my fault,” Jonny tries again, “it’s on me.”

“Shut up,” the guard spits, glaring at Jonny while he grabs the boy by the arm, yanks him along. The boy resists, pushes back, but it’s futile. He eventually goes easily, hauled away by the goon. Jonny yells after them, doesn’t stop, won’t stop, but it’s useless.

The boy is gone and it’s Jonny’s fault.

And there’s nothing he can do to save him.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Jonny’s barely made it through SCO security before he’s handed his next assignment.

It takes everything for him not to groan right there, like a petulant child, right in front of his division head. Honestly, this string of non-stop field missions is _good,_ it means the SCO sees something in him, wants to see more.

It means he’s one step closer to becoming a Double-oh.

So Jonny forces a tight smile and accepts his mission, promising to meet his main asset at the National Gallery in an hour. It gives him almost no time to shower off the lingering filth of the mission, which is more than a little annoying, but if that’s what it takes...

Well, Jonny’s determined to become a Double-oh agent, even if it means he’ll die trying. One quick shower isn’t the worst thing in the world.

But that means Jonny shows up to the Gallery in a standard, agency-issued suit that doesn’t quite fit him right, his hair still damp. He hasn’t had a chance to go through the mission files yet, isn’t exactly sure what kind of person he’s to work with. He just hopes it isn’t some old asshole who’ll feel the need to comment on his state of dress. Not after the day he’s already had.

Shaking his wrist until his sleeve shifts, until he can see his beat-up watch, Jonny realizes he’s a little early. He settles on the nearest bench, inconspicuously blinking up at the art. It’s a boring one, old-looking but warm colored. A maritime scene, very European. Jonny doesn’t care much for it.

He startles when the weight of the bench shifts and someone slides in directly next to him. It’s a big bench, so it’s not uncomfortable or anything, but there’s plenty of empty benches. It’s nothing of real concern but Jonny’s still a spy and it’s admittedly a _little_ strange.

The kid can’t be more than twenty years old, face still rounded at the edges and at least a head shorter than Jonny himself. If he looks closely enough, he thinks he might even see a splattering of acne, light and subtle against his ruddy skin, but there nonetheless. He’s got a backpack slung over his shoulder, a tablet tucked protectively under his arm.

“One of my favorites,” the boy sighs, “ _The Fighting Temeraire,_ that’s what it’s called. It’s supposed to be a lesson, you know? Nothing lasts forever.”

Jonny nods, hums something that sounds more or less like agreement. _Téméraire…_ reckless. He’s heard the world a million times over, a recurring scolding in his mother’s voice. But it weighs differently when the boy says it.

Jonny mulls that over. He studies the painting, takes in the old time ship being taken apart for scrap. But after a moment he leaves it, he isn’t here to talk about words and art. He pauses politely for just a moment longer.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he murmurs, making to move to another bench. He still needs to meet his asset, after all.

“Agent Toews,” the boy stops him, throwing a quick side-glance in his direction, mouth turned up in a smirk.

Jonny freezes. He look him over again. This must be a mistake.

 _“You’re_ my asset?” he says, incredulous.

The kid scrunches his nose and kinda squints at Jonny, partially offended, but mostly amused. Then he holds out his hand.

“Patrick Kane.”

 

~

 

As much as Jonny commends himself on his immaculate professionalism, it quickly becomes clear that Patrick takes all of that and throws it right out the window.

Jonny can’t _stand_ this kid.

Okay. Admittedly, he isn’t too bad, but it’s just little things. Lots and lots of little things. Tiny gestures that are vaguely untactful. Curt and sometimes unclear answers. His perpetual clear dismissals and shove-offs. It’s irritating.

And to top it off? He’s a bathroom hog. The kid spends at least a half hour in the bathroom after the water’s been turned off, playing around with his stupid flouncy curls until they’re just the right amount of bouncy.

Those piss off Jonny, too.

Sure, the kid’s not a field agent, but he’s still a member of the Service. It’s unprofessional and stupid, really. Agents of all sectors are supposed to be secretive, undetectable, unremarkable.

And there’s absolutely nothing _unremarkable_ about those goddamn curls. They’re a focal point, really. You’d have to have a whole lot of self-control _not_ to notice them. Jonny can barely keep them out of his head, which—

Anyway.

Jonny understands his role in this operation. He’s just the bodyguard, really. He doesn’t even have clearance to see half the shit Patrick is doing, clacking away at his laptop for hours at a time. This is Patrick’s mission and Jonny’s only job is to make sure he can complete it without any _problems_.

Jonny knows this because Patrick has made it very painfully clear.

“I’m really sorry,” Patrick says, completely out of nowhere, barely a day into their hold up at the hotel. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I can’t really concentrate with whatever it is you’re doing. Can you go take a walk or something?”

Freezing, Jonny slowly lowers himself from where he’d been doing push-ups on the carpet. “Um, no?”

“I can’t get anything done when you’re,” Patrick stops, makes hand gestures in place of the words he can’t find. “Doing that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Jonny huffs, grabbing for his glass of water on the nightstand and downing it all in one go.

Patrick just grumbles. “You’re not even doing anything important. I’m working on my mission, here, and you’re _interfering_ with that. So could you please?”

Jonny blinks. “It’s my mission, too. I have to do my routine.”

“Can’t it wait? Or, isn’t there a gym in this place? Look, I just need to get through this one part, it’ll be twenty minutes tops.”

“No?” Jonny doesn’t let up.

Patrick completely stops then, pulls a key command and then looks at Jonny, square in the eye. “You’re interfering with my mission, which, I should remind you is above your clearance.” His eyes go dark. “So if you would follow _orders_ and go.” Patrick promptly returns to his laptop without a second glance.

Oh, now that’s a low blow. Jonny glares at him, because while the material in the case is above his clearance, this kid has absolutely nothing on Jonathan Toews. So Jonny, with the strength of all his gusto, takes an equally mild hit to his special agent-inflated ego.

“Look, you have a mission. I have a mission. We’re gonna just have to make this work, alright?” he huffs, arms crossed over his chest.

Patrick shrugs without looking up, fingers still moving busily across the screen. “I’ll complete my mission by any and all means necessary. So don’t fuck up yours.” He pauses, looks up then. “Thanks.” And then back down.

Annoyed, Jonny turns on his heel and leaves the room, maybe swinging the door shut with a little too much force. Maybe.

Jonny thinks, sometimes, that Patrick is actually just the ultimate Double-oh test:

A test of fucking patience.

 

~

 

“Hey Jonny? Can you run downstairs and grab me a coffee?” Patrick hums from the desk, cramped with empty coffee cups and varying gadgetry.

“Are you serious?” Jonny blinks.

Patrick pauses, glances at him from behind his laptop. “Uh, yeah?”

Affronted, Jonny huffs. “I’m a highly-trained, skilled field agent and you’re asking me to run you coffee?”

At that, Patrick freezes, then straightens up. He looks at Jonny, expression schooled but eyes cold. “It’s just a favor, Jonny. You can say no if you’re going to be a dick.”

“ _I’m_ the dick?” Jonny almost can’t believe it. “You’re the one asking me to run coffee!”

“Look, it’s not that big of a deal,” Patrick makes to stand up, shuts his laptop a little too loudly. “I’ll get it myself.”

But Patrick starts making to leave and Jonny realizes he’s still sitting there, bored with nothing to do, and he starts to feel a little bad. He stands, holds Patrick back with an arm across his chest. “It’s fine, I’ll get it.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to have a tantrum, I’ll just go, I’m a big boy.”

Jonny flinches. “Sorry.”

It’s a little surprising, how quickly Patrick goes from annoyed to something else, something along the lines of exasperated, but not quite. A little more put out, like this is familiar, like this is something he deals with more often than not. “I didn’t mean it to be a jerk, I really am just working.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Jonny suddenly feels a lot more terrible than before. “No, for sure. I’ll go get coffee. And seriously, I was out of line.”

Patrick looks like he’s going to say something, so Jonny waits. But eventually Patrick just shakes his head and hands him the room key.

“Thanks.”

 

~

 

It’s about half an hour after Jonny returns with a cup holder of two extra-large cups in his hands. Patrick’s already halfway through one, but the other, an identical order, is still untouched.

“You gonna drink yours?” Patrick pipes up, nods at it.

“That one’s also for you,” Jonny shrugs. “I don’t really drink coffee, and you looked like you needed it.”

“Oh,” is all Patrick says, eyes wide. He quickly returns to his work.

It’s a comfortable enough silence, just the clack of Patrick’s keyboard and the rustling of the papers, the case files, Jonny’s going through for the millionth time. So Jonny doesn’t really expect it when Patrick speaks up again.

“You know,” Patrick starts, setting down his coffee after a long sip. “I’m used to it.”

It takes Jonny a second to realize what he’s talking about. “What? People treating you like shit? That’s awful.”

Patrick shrugs. “People take a look at me and they underestimate me. But at the end of the day, the Service didn’t. And here I am.”

Jonny doesn't say anything, doesn’t quite know what to say.

But it’s alright, because Patrick continues. “I just stick to my work, ignore the bad. The rest comes when it comes.” He turns to Jonny, fully now, and offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re not the worst field agent I’ve dealt with yet, and you certainly aren’t going to be the last.”

“I’m still a jerk, I should be better than that,” Jonny tries, but Patrick waves him off.

“I’m trying to say you’re _fine,_ Jonny,” Patrick huffs. “So stop looking all guilty and get back to work, okay? We have a mission.”

When he puts it like that, Jonny does feel a little immature, so he turns back to his papers.

It’s a while before it clicks, what exactly Patrick had said.

_We._

 

~

 

It almost seems _too_ easy.

Patrick gets to work immediately, and it’s almost fascinating to see this kid — the kid that’s been driving him insane with his unrelenting petulance and ever-present pretentiousness — slip into focus, concentration. It’s like a switch is flipped, sending all the fight out of him as he addresses business. Not that Jonny doubts that he’d be back on his case in a second if he were to disturb him, but the way Patrick relaxes into his work, melts into his movements — it’s something special.

So Jonny spares occasional curious glances, mesmerized with Patrick’s hands, so precise and delicate in their tinkering but firm and sure in their decisions. He sticks his tongue out a little when he thinks too hard and it makes him look that much younger. But he’s never unsure of a move, even when his gadgets flash various warning colors around him. Jonny’s watching a master at work, and that’s something he’s absolutely sure of.

But Jonny is distracted; it can never be that easy.

It happens all in one moment, and when Jonny thinks back on it, it’s like he blinks and suddenly they’re there and Patrick’s shouting for him. He blinks again and suddenly he has his pistol out, fighting off more men than he can count. He blinks one more time and the room is quiet, Jonny alone, surrounded by still-warm corpses, and no Patrick to be found.

 

~

  


He finds him almost twelve hours later, wandering around the streets on his own, a limp in his step and looking far too worse for wear. When he finally sees him, really sees him, his eyes are long dry and red from exhaustion but wide and so fucking relieved all the same.

“Jonny?”

“Patrick, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—”

“Shh,” Patrick stops him. “It’s fine, I’m fine.” He tries to put on his usual cocky grin, but it falters. “I’m always underestimated, remember? Nothing I can’t work my way out of.”

And Jonny wants to take the reassurance for what it is, but there’s that part of him that feels completely helpless, _useless,_ because he couldn’t protect Patrick in the first place. He couldn’t save him either. Mission failed, twice over.

But then Patrick looks at him and sighs a little, and he knows that Patrick senses his pain, shares it with him.

Jonny isn’t thinking, it’s instinct really, when he grabs Patrick, tugs him to his chest, and just holds him there.

Patrick goes easily, wraps his own arms around him and takes a breath so deep that Jonny thinks it might be his first real one in hours.

When they pull away, Jonny goes to tug his arm — to lead him out once and for all, to finally get to their extraction point — but he stops when he notices the dark bruises circling Patrick’s wrists, greening at the edges.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says quickly, tugging his arm back. “Come on, let’s go home.”

 

~

 

It’s only after, time and time later, with Patrick right there, held close to his chest, when Jonny’s night terrors remind him of the moment he saw them take Patrick, etched so clearly like a photograph of time. When they grabbed him and he shouted Jonny’s name, shouted _for Jonny_ , but Jonny wasn’t there to answer him. The moment they yanked him along, the fear and the terror glassy but clear in Patrick’s eyes. The moment that Jonny had failed him.  

Patrick doesn’t tell him the truth about it until years later, the same years when Jonny wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, hands grasping at nothing, trying to find a Patrick that, in the end, needn’t be saved, when his own Patrick is right there, desperately trying to wrestle him awake.

Patrick doesn’t tell him until the tables turn, and he’s the one thrashing at nothing, his barely coherent pleas for mercy, ghosting his lips, waking Jonny this time instead.

Jonny doesn't know it at the time, not for sure, but they were anything but kind to Patrick. And the memories continue to haunt him.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Once they take the boy away, Jonny can’t help but feel a terrible sense of deja vu, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mission failed, again and again, and it’s like he’s watching history repeat itself right in front of him.

Patrick would’ve known what to do, Patrick would’ve been able to save the boy, and himself, too. But then again, Patrick would never have been in this position in the first place.

Jonny sighs, nearly defeated, and sinks against the bars of his cell, cool on his face. The images of Patrick and the boy blur together, joined with a few more; the people he couldn’t save. It hurts, like a terrible blow right to his core.

All he’s ever wanted was to save people. And he can’t even do that.

But in the midst of his self-loathing, he can almost hear Patrick’s voice in his ear, can almost feel the soothing touch on his shoulders, where Patrick likes to dig in and massage up to his neck when he’s stressed.

 _“You can be better, you can.”_ His head says, all in Patrick’s voice.

Jonny swallows. He _can,_ and he _should,_ that’s the least he owes to Patrick, to the boy, to people he loves, to the people he couldn’t save.

He focuses on calming down, evening his breathing, relaxing his heartbeat. Clarity comes with it, piercing through his thoughts and hushing the whirring in his head.

There’s always solution to every problem, just waiting to be found. Something Patrick likes to say.

God, what would Patrick do?

Jonny stops. And there it is. What _would_ Patrick do? He doesn’t have a single doubt that Patrick would be able to dig himself out, that he’d be able to find the solution. After all, he’d done it once. He’d do it again.

It takes a minute, but then it dawns on Jonny. The watch.

He can practically hear Patrick’s voice in his head, all cocky and cheeky and everything that is Patrick Kane.

_“I’ll warn you, the alarm is a little loud. If you know what I mean.”_

Suddenly, Jonny knows _exactly_ what he means. He wiggles it off his wrist.

It takes a second, because he wasn’t exactly given any directions for this thing. But he knows Patrick well enough, has seen enough of him work, has _utilized_ enough of his work, that he knows how it usually goes, how he usually thinks.

It’s only a moment before Jonny’s got the dials turned the right ways, a click and a countdown initiating on the face of the watch.

As carefully and calculated as he can be, he shoves the watch through the bars, precariously balances just over the lock of the cell door. He waits patiently, counts out each click, then holds his breath, bracing for the impact.

**_BOOM._ **

 

~

 

Jonny quickly realizes that he has to work fast.

It’s easy to lay out his priorities: dodge the guards, find the boy, get the hell out of here.

The rest, however, isn’t so easy. Jonny scrambles to his feet and decides his first task is to get out of this wing. The thing is, while the explosive was a very nice touch, it was indeed quite loud. There should be guards on him soon enough.

So Jonny sprints down the hall, and it’s labored, for sure, the lack of nutrients over the past however long really taking its toll on him. But he’s a man with his life on the line, he pushes through it.

He hears the patter of footfalls around the corner and panics, ducks into a turn in the hall and presses himself into the alcove of a window. He holds still, counts out his prayers.

The footfalls pass. It worked.

But Jonny doesn’t have time to celebrate, he heads back out and down the hall, in the direction the guards had come.

He has to find the boy, where the hell are they keeping the boy.

It’s a while, but suddenly Jonny hears some grumbling, a whimper that sounds too soft, too young to be anyone else. He doesn’t think it through, too focused on the ultimate goal at hand. There is no stealth when Jonny pushes open the door.

And, unfortunately, there is equally no chance when the guards grab him, then, ready for him.

He steals one apologetic look at the boy before the guards get a proper hold on him drag him away.

 

* * *

 

 

Patrick doesn’t tell Sharp about the spot on the map, not at first, anyway.

He knows it’s a long shot and there isn’t much to back it up other than the fact that Patrick has a _feeling_ that it’s him. For Patrick, it’s more than enough to justify that it’s Jonny. For others? Maybe not so much.

The last thing Patrick needs is to get held up by another psych eval. Especially when he’s this close.

Upon prodding at the black mass on the map, Patrick concludes that it’s a signal blocker. Not military-grade but definitely strong. Definitely put up by someone powerful. It won’t be easy to take down but it won’t be the most difficult thing he’s ever done.

Patrick thinks he’ll be able to do it from home, away from the SCO’s prying eyes. Where he’ll probably be under house arrest — sorry, _professional leave_ — anyway. Just in case, he loads it onto a drive and pockets it for later.

He finds Sharpy asleep on the couch in his office.

“Come on,” Patrick says gently, “time to go.”

Sleepily, Sharp blinks awake, a little surprised. “Already?”

Patrick nods.

It’s time.

 

~

 

Sharp doesn’t bother him while he’s hunched over his desk, lined in hand-built computers and machinery so personalized and advanced that it hasn’t even hit the scientific community yet. It’s both top of the line and cutting edge. But that’s not the appeal for Patrick.

It runs just how he likes, just how he wants, just how he needs.

It’s his baby.

Years ago, when he and Jonny had first moved in together, he’d spent days rebuilding his workstation in their spare room. Jonny’s always called it “the office” but Patrick’s always hated how suffocating that sounded.

He’d opted to call it the lab, set up with his own little tinkering station and his beloved workstation. Jonny had come in and tried to help him out, tried to do the heavy-lifting and the brawn. But Patrick had found him putting his things in the wrong places, and it’d sparked their first fight as a Serious Couple.

Right now, sitting amongst his perfectly arranged machinery, Patrick wishes he could be fighting with Jonny right now, if only because it would mean having him back, safe at home, where they’d eventually get so angry that they’d end up tumbling into bed to work it out in the sheets.

Patrick would do anything to see Jonny like that again. To see him safe, in any way possible. Absolutely anything, without question, at the drop of a hat.

He misses him.

So with that in mind, Patrick settles into his workstation and tells Sharp he can go, to just leave him be for a few hours, while he tinkers with his machinery. Maybe Sharp believes him, maybe he doesn’t, but at the very least, he trusts Patrick enough to let him be.

Patrick slides the drive into the proper port, waiting patiently as his screens fill with images and data. He waits until the map pops up on the screen directly to his left.

He takes a moment to study it, to mark its shape and account for every corner, logging the coordinates of each location. There’s a total of seven marks within a couple miles of each other, each connecting to shroud the island in radio darkness.

Patrick gets to work on the northernmost one.

It takes a while, hours maybe, but Patrick doesn’t relent. Hands sliding smoothly over his keyboard, he sets line after line into the terminal, withering away at the access point until there’s not much left of it.

Finally, he gets the final fault, sending the system crashing and the checkpoint clearing.

But Patrick doesn’t stop, not yet. He scans it over as quickly as he can, hoping to carve enough time to work on the rest before they suspect anything. There’s a few signals, radios or walkies or something of the sort. Nothing of interest.

Nothing of Jonny.

Not yet.

So without pause, without break, Patrick sweats to get the next one down, working at them clockwise. It’s quicker this time, now that he knows where to apply pressure and where to pop. It eventually goes down easily enough.

He scans again.

Nothing.

It goes on like that, a lot of nothing and more nothing. Nothing until he takes down the sixth checkpoint, almost an hour later, scanning again with hopes both high in anticipation and low in expectation.

There’s a ping. It beeps, low and quiet, as the radar passes over it again and again and again.

Patrick almost forgets how to breathe.

He doesn’t know for sure, not at first, but it’s the kind of thing that has the SCO’s signature all over it. The way it sends out a pulsating signal, the interval of pings itself. It’s far too familiar to be nothing.

It’s far too familiar and far too coincidental not to be Jonny.

Patrick extracts its data as quickly as he can, manually jotting down the coordinates on a post-it note, too.

Just in time, it seems, as a frantic dinging starts to bleep from the monitor to his right.

“Shit,” Patrick murmurs in a groan, “time to go.”

Back to his keyboard, he lets his fingers pound out line after line, sweeping his terminal into a tidy, well-scrubbed black box without a trace of his presence in the Mediterranean.

On the final stroke, the one that seals the permanent delete and inevitably restarts his entire system, Patrick finally relaxes. Takes a deep breath.

He flops back in his chair, cramped hands immediately flying to brush over his face and through his curls as he exhales long and relieved.

He did it.

He found Jonny.

 

~

 

“What’s got you in such a good mood,” says Sharp, his own grin spreading when he sees Patrick’s. Even after a prolonged period of his worst moods, his good aura is nothing but infectious. Sharp sets down a bag that smells like takeout, which gets Patrick even cheerier.

“Food, good, perfect,” Patrick sing-songs, “because what I’m about to tell you needs a proper celebration.”

Sharp raises a brow curiously. “Oh?”

Giddy, Patrick snatches a tablet off the couch where he’d left it. With a press of his thumb, he illuminates the screen, swiping across it until a data sheet pops up. He hands it over to Sharp, just a little pleased and a little smug.

“This is—” he stops, looks a little closer. “Patrick… is this…? Is this Jonny?”

Now more than just a little pleased, Patrick nods enthusiastically. “It’s Jonny. It’s definitely Jonny.”

“Do you have the—”

“I already ran the bio data. It’s definitely his geo, matched the serial number.”

“But do you have—”

“Couldn’t access his vitals, though. Signal was too weak. Only got the geo.”

Sharp closes his mouth from where it’d been left open in his half-spoken questions. He nods instead. Of course Patrick would have everything stripped down to the important parts by now.

Except: “What did the Director say?”

Patrick blinks at him. “I haven’t told the Director.”

“What? I’d imagine you would’ve sent the data up as soon as you’d found it?”

“Send it up? Nah, I did this on my own. You know fully well that the SCO closed Jonny’s case. They’re gonna send me to psych if they see I’m still on this.”

Sharp folds his arms pensively and levels Patrick with a look, which Patrick returns with his best pleading eyes.

“Well,” Sharp says slowly, “if we can’t go to the SCO, then what’s our next move?”

Patrick grins and holds up a flip-style mobile phone, one that Sharp can’t say he’s ever seen before. Waving it around he says, “it’s time to call in some favors.”

It clicks. Sharp rolls his eyes but snatches the burner phone and starts to dial. He looks at Patrick before he hits call. “Well? I’ve got transport, see what you can do about the gadget thing. That _is_ what you do, isn’t it, Quartermaster?”

Sighing a breath of relief, Patrick smiles.

“On it, Double-oh Ten.”

They get to work.

 

~

 

Patrick hasn’t been in the field since, well, that one and only time. It’s not terrible; he’s not scared or unfit or anything like that. It’s just. Different.

The role of Quartermaster has so much more responsibility, so much more pressure, but there’s something about being in his element — the familiar comfort of his holograms and screens and loose machine parts — that makes it seem like nothing compared to his, er, current situation.

“You’re not really an outdoors person, are you?” Sharp muses from where he’s lounging among shipping crates, letting the sun soak in. Patrick has to crane his head up from his shady spot to glare back, hair damp with sweat and face flushed with the heat.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Patrick groans, “but I can’t say I’m the stowaway-on-a-boat type.”

Sharp grins at him, “it’s more fun when you pretend you’re a pirate.”

“Argh,” Patrick rolls his eyes with a half hearted fist gesture, sarcastic and unamused.

“Cheer up, Pattycakes,” Sharp sits up and swings his legs over the side of his main crate. He swings his legs carelessly, letting the salty air _whoosh_ through his hair. “I’d say we’re almost there.”

Sharp cocks his head towards starboard, nodding at the horizon, where a dot of brown and green swirl together as they near it. Patrick lets his head fall back against the crate with a sigh.

“Fucking _finally_.”

 

~

 

“Alright,” Patrick huffs, dramatically swatting at the brush along the path, “I’d like to change my answer. I’ve decided I’m most definitely not an outdoors person.”

“Relax, you big baby,” Sharp tsks, hacking away at yet another branch with the laser equipped to his wristwatch, “it could be worse.”

“Are we almost there?” Patrick whines instead.

With a _thump_ of the branch finally falling and a pleased grunt, Sharp shrugs. “You’re the Quartermaster. You tell me.”

Ever the dramatic, Patrick over-exaggerates his movements, groaning as he fusses with the dials on his own watch. Eventually, it projects a miniature hologram, displaying the render of the island that Patrick had messily thrown together before their departure. It spins until it orients itself, the back end of the island rendering out more detail, marking out the path they’ve already traveled.

It’s still a good chunk from where the trail ends to the red dot, the target, with the label “0019” hovering above it.

Patrick sighs. He’s tired and miserable and they’re not even close, not yet, but one look at that codename and suddenly he’s overcome with refueled motivation.

He has lots of thoughts that he’d like to express but instead he murmurs nothing but a firm, “keep up the pace, Double-oh Ten.”

Sharp nods.

“He’ll be there, Patrick. He will.”

 

~

 

Jonny’s not here.

Well. He _could_ be here, somewhere, hidden in a dark corner in the farthest edge of the unfortunately large fortress. What Patrick and Sharp _can_ conclude, however, is that Jonny is no longer in the exact place he’d been rooted to for the past few days.

Patrick had been so sure that he’d be there; both what he figured and what turned out to be the fort’s holding cells. But no matter how many times they double-check each cell window, Jonny is nowhere to be found.

“They moved him,” Sharp finally concludes.

He was here less than twenty-four hours ago. He was _right here_.

Patrick feels like he’s failed him again. Let him slip right through his fingers _again_.

It’s a lot to process and Patrick definitely feels the panic rising from his gut, but he can’t do this, not here. Not in the field, where they’ve gone dark and all they’ve got is each other. So he shoves it down the best he can and resigns to following Sharpy back into the darkness of the foliage.

“We’ll recon and try to track him for tomorrow. He couldn’t have gone far.”

“The readings I’m getting on his geo lag at about twelve hours. He could be anywhere, Sharpy.” Despite his best efforts, Patrick knows he sounds discouraged. He doesn’t mean to, he’s just trying to be realistic. Just. It’s just a lot, getting so close to Jonny and having him ripped away again.

“A location from twelve hours ago is better than nothing at all.”

Patrick doesn’t argue, he shuts up on his own.

 

~

 

Sharp starts to build a shelter of sorts from the fallen branches and leaves he’d left in their path. Patrick lets him struggle for a solid ten minutes until he takes pity and removes a square foot of thin cloth from the lining of his backpack.

“Here,” he offers, standing up and motioning for Sharp to step aside. “Latest in Q technology.”

With a flick of his wrist, Patrick lazily tosses it to the cleared area, using his toe to smooth out the edges. He raises a brow at Sharp, as if to say “watch this,” and messes with his watch. With one final tap, the square begins to inflate and reshape until it resembles a humble but fully-inhabitable tent.

“After you,” Patrick hums. Sharp rolls his eyes but easily complies.

It’s far from luxurious but it keeps out bugs and maintains a manageable temperature so it’s more than sufficient. Most importantly, it easily blends into its surroundings, effectively camouflaging them for the night.

Tomorrow’s going to be another long day after the one they’ve already had. It’s worth it, of course, as long as Patrick can get Jonny. Get _closure_. With those thoughts floating continuously over the storm swelling in Patrick’s head, it’s not long before he’s fast asleep, dreaming of nothing but Jonny.

 

~

 

While the majority of Patrick’s Quartermaster duties involve reconnaissance in some way or another, he easily decides that field recon is one of the worst types of operations in the entire Service.

It’s hot and gross and Patrick’s sore in at least ten places. He’s thirsty and hungry and tired as fuck but he pushes all that down so he can push forward instead.

Perched uncomfortably in his fourth tree of the afternoon, Patrick swats away some concerningly large bugs as they obscure his view of the fortress. There’s some movement over in the corner of the courtyard, a handful of guards that seem a few too many to be routine. Quickly, Patrick raises his arm and snaps a picture with his wristwatch, sending it off to Sharp for a second opinion.

The reply comes back quickly, like he was waiting for it: _Maybe getting 19? Check dot._

Dutifully, Patrick clicks the side-dial to call up the hologram of the map. It comes naturally, now, given how often he’s done it today. With a couple of swipes, he adds a cluster of yellow dots to emulate the guards, making sure to set them in motion to signify their direction of movement. Finished with that, his eyes fall to where the red dot blinks expectantly, “0019” still hovering enticingly above it.

It’s in the direct line of the yellow dots.

“Send Snapshot to Double-oh Ten,” Patrick commands, satisfied when the hologram flashes white once and proceeds to close, leaving a green checkmark on the face of his watch. It’s not there for long, soon replaced by an incoming call from Sharp.

“Accept call,” Patrick hums.

_“They’re definitely retrieving Double-oh Nineteen.”_

“Agreed.”

There’s a crack of a branch and some shuffling over the line. _“I’m going to get closer, see if I can get any info on where they’re taking him and why.”_

“Are you still wearing the button down?”

 _“Uh,”_ Sharp pauses, confused, _“yes, why?”_

“Remember the experimental recon buttons? From R&D?” Patrick can’t help the note of smugness that must carry over the line. It’s almost like an “I told you so” but a little bit better. He knows it registers because Sharp sighs, unamused.

_“Yeah, okay, got it. Recon buttons, brilliant idea, Quartermaster.”_

“Click once to activate. Good luck, Double-oh Ten. I’ll be monitoring you from the trees.”

_“Wonderful.”_

And the line clicks off. Patrick calls up the map once again and focuses on Sharp’s blue dot as it sweeps across the terrain.

_Final stretch, Pat, final fucking stretch._

 

~

 

The recon buttons work better than Patrick had imagined. The boosted audio and visual are phenomenal, top of the line, and transmit crystal clear live hologram right to his watch. Huddled back into the tent with Sharp, he immediately puts the agent back to work, processing each button, each angle, as quickly as they can between only the two of them.

_“Boss wants that spy tied up and ready for him in the courtyard in an hour. So get off your lazy ass and get moving.”_

It’s one of the guards, probably one that’s more in charge by the looks of it. There’s a group of guards lounging around the hall, near their posts. He kicks dirt at them, clanging the butt of his rifle noisily against the walls.

_“Come on, up, up, up, you fucking freeloaders. Don’t make me break your damn arms.”_

Sharp makes a face but turns to Patrick, a sparkle in his eye. “Hear that? Jonny to the courtyard in an hour.”

Patrick nods, already making to scoot out of the tent. “Call up a rescue team to meet us there.”

Sharp’s already on it, fiddling with his watch.

“Let’s go get Jonny.”

 

* * *

 

Jonny’s still a little groggy but he’s well enough to put up a fight when the guards drag him from the cellar. It’s late afternoon, the sun high and harsh, prickling the wounds threaded along his tender skin. He blinks, temporarily blinded, white spots peppering his vision.

He gives the guards as hard a time as he can, refusing to budge and going complete dead weight on them. Even when he’s at his weakest, Jonny can’t be anything but defiant. As prideful as he can be.

Patrick would say he’s just stubborn.

Jonny privately thinks that if now is his time, then he’s at peace with his life’s work, with what he’s given of himself back into the world. He tried and tried and tried — tries still — just to make the world better. Even if it’s just a little bit. Even if the difference is barely noticeable. Because that’s what he set out to do, swore to do.

The fact is, Jonny’s content with his life’s work. And if that was all that mattered, all that ended, he’d accept his fate fully and without complaint. He’s already accomplished what he’d set out to do. He’s already done his part.

But then there’s Patrick.

Patrick, who will be left to grow old without Jonny at his side. Patrick, who will be devastated. Patrick, with whom their story is unfinished, a love story without an arc, without a completed plot, without an ending. The pages of their story ripped carelessly from the spine of destiny.

Jonny believes — _hopes_ — that there’s another world waiting for them. A better world. And he’ll be waiting for Patrick there.

The guards haul him into a chair roughly, distressing his bruises and cuts, making Jonny groan, strained. But he keeps his head up, refusing to break. He won’t go out without poise, without strength. Never.

“Toews.”

It’s Avlis himself, spitting out Jonny’s name like poison. Too weak to laugh, Jonny keeps his smug thoughts to himself. That’s right, asshole, Jonathan Toews is something to be reckoned with.

Avlis must sense the mirth, dry as it is, in Jonny’s eyes because he scowls at him angrily. “You think you’re funny, huh? You think you’re so high and mighty?”

With a flick of his hand, Avlis signals to the guards, who in turn hold Jonny down and punch him square in the face. It _pulses_ in pain, hot and stinging, but Jonny doesn’t say shit, doesn’t make a single noise. He won’t give Avlis the satisfaction.

“You’re going to tell me what you know, understand, _Agent?”_ he spits. “You’re gonna tell me what the CIA wants.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “I’m not CIA, I’m Canadian.”

Avlis doesn’t appreciate his sass. He backhands him, quick and heated. “CSIS? Whoever the hell you work for.”

“You don’t even know who I work for?” Jonny raises a brow, amused.

Without prompting, the guard hooks him in the gut. It hurts but Jonny’s already hurting. It doesn’t throw him.

“I don’t care who you work for,” Avlis growls, gets right up in his face and yanks a fistful of Jonny’s hair, pulling hard and harsh. “I know who you are, Jonathan Toews. I know you’re some sort of special operations. I know you’ve been trailing me and my team for weeks. But most importantly, I know where you live. I know who you _fuck._ I know what matters most to you, _Jonathan.”_

Jonny cringes. It’s probably a fib. It’s easy enough to find out his name, he’s microchipped like any high level agent, easy enough to find the surface information. Easy enough to run facial recognition on him. Black market hackers with databases on databases of high priority people and the society they fall into.

Jonny’s been in the field long enough. He’d been a regular agent, more reckless and hand-wavy with his identity, for years before he even dreamt of becoming a Double-oh. Jonny calls the fib.

When he doesn’t budge, Avlis sighs, like he had expected as much.

“Get him to talk,” he commands, glaring at his guards. “I want to know who he works for and what he knows.”

Jonny braces himself as elegantly as he can, letting the blows come again and again. He’s had extensive, deep training. Pain management. Interrogation resistance. It’s painful and it’s hard but he’s been coached in this time and time again. It’s nothing.

But then he hears the shriek and a high-pitched shout of _“Jonny!”_

Jonny’s head snaps up so incredibly fast. Even though he’s never that voice before, he immediately knows who it belongs to.

Across the room, held easily in the burly arms of another guard, struggles the little boy, Mini-Patrick, kicking and crying and yelling after him. Jonny’s heart completely sinks.

Avlis, once he notices, is beyond pleased. There’s a new wave of hot, red hatred that courses through Jonny, breaks the training hardwired into his head. It’s too much, it’s crossing the line, it’s enough to make him snap.

“Let the boy go,” Jonny seethes, “he’s just a kid.”

A look from Avlis and the guard drops the boy unceremoniously to the ground and slaps him so hard his head snaps to the side. He shouts, but swallows it down in a way that shows that he’s used to it. Jonny yells and screams for them to leave him alone but it’s useless.

“Better start talking, Toews,” Avlis growls.

“Never,” Jonny spits, glaring as hard as he can.

Avlis rushes him, shoving him back and then delivering a hearty kick to Jonny’s chest. It knocks the breath from his lungs, leaves Jonny gasping like he’s drowning over and over again. But Jonny refuses to heel. Avlis yanks him back up by the arm, twisting it cruelly.

“You’re going to talk,” Avlis grits through his teeth, “because you are nothing. I will destroy everything you care about. I’ll burn everything you love, right to the ground.”

Suddenly, gunfire fills the courtyard, echoing off the big stone walls.

Then, from behind him, once the fire dies down, _“Fat chance, asshole.”_

Jonny’s heart stops. He’s heard that voice _so_ many times before. He immediately knows who it belongs to, even before he gets a proper look.

“Patrick?!”

 

~

 

Jonny thinks that this could be some kind of hallucination. Maybe like a post-death trick, a reconciliation after Avlis punched him hard enough to kill. Jonny thinks he must be dead. Because there’s no way that Patrick is _here,_ right now in the middle of nowhere, just to bust Jonny’s sorry ass out of this goddamn prison.

“Come on,” Patrick makes a beeline for him, making sure to shoot the fallen guards in the head along the way, just to be sure. He’s grinning ridiculously wide, considering how grimy and gross and _bloody_ he looks. Jonny just stares back at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving, right until Patrick grabs him and hauls him to his feet, Patrick’s touch radiating against his aching skin.

“Patrick?” Jonny says again, all in one breath.

“Yup, big guy,” Patrick laughs, relaxing like he’s finally been able to inhale after holding his breath for hours and hours. “It’s me, Jonny. I’m here and I’ve got you now, okay? I’ve got you.”

Jonny allows himself waver in and out of focus, allows Patrick to take his weight and drag him where he needs him to go. There the familiar clang of open fire around him, Patrick himself wielding a Siggy, one-handed, with the utmost confidence.

Somewhere along the line he spots Sharp, in full Double-oh Ten mode, covering Patrick with his own handgun as he pulls Jonny along. It’s a PPK, similar to the one Patrick had originally given him, but lacking the low blue glow of his palm-reading technology.

Jonny hobbles along as good as he can but then he remembers.

“Patrick, Patrick—”

“Shh, Jonny, you’re doing good babe. You’re doing great—”

“No,” Jonny interrupts him, determined, “the boy, Patrick. You have to get the boy.”

Patrick stills and sighs but he nods, nonetheless. “Of course. Let’s find you cover first, okay? So me and Sharpy can get him?”

Jonny thinks about it but agrees. “Okay… okay.”

So he lets Patrick dump him behind a pillar, lets him worry at him for a bit, until Sharp ceases fire and comes up to meet them. He’s tired, exhausted, really, and it’s getting hard to focus but he squeezes Patrick’s hand and manages to look him in the eye long enough to convey his message.

“I know, Jonny, I know,” Patrick presses their foreheads together, “I’ll get him, I promise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Patrick,” he hears Sharp say, “I’ll go. You have to stay with Jonny.”

Patrick pushes past him. “No, this is my fault. It’s my responsibility—”

Sharp shoves Patrick back, just barely hard enough to bump him back into the pillar. “Shut up, Quartermaster,” Sharpy says seriously. “I don’t care who’s at fault here. You’re not a field agent.” Then as he goes, with finality, “Cover me.”

And Double-oh Ten goes, handgun ready and firing, without another word or pause for argument.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jonny manages to say. “Let Sharpy do his job. Stay and do yours.”

Patrick nods, knows Jonny’s right. So he settles until he gets a good overall view of the courtyard, pistol cocked and ready just in case. His watch is strategically placed so he can speak into it while he’s cocked.

“You’re clear, Double-oh Ten, covering you from here. Over.”

“Thanks, Quartermaster. Over.”

“Any time. Good luck, Agent. Over.”

So Patrick watches Sharp weave back through the courtyard, from cover to cover, until he’s out of sight.

“Alright, you’re dark now. Let me know what you need. Over.”

“Roger that. Over.”

Jonny’s careful not to disturb Patrick, careful not to break his focus. But he sees him shaking, nervous, holding his breath. So Jonny reaches out and rests his hand on Patrick’s thigh, reassuring and grounding. Patrick doesn't outright acknowledge it but he stills, takes a breath. The tension visibly melting from his frame.

They stay like that, Patrick focused on sweeping over the courtyard, anxiously waiting for Sharp to appear from around the corner. Jonny working on his breathing, working on keeping conscious, focused, to make it easier on Patrick.

There’s a gunshot. Too nearby to be Sharp.

“Fuck,” Patrick spins around until he finds the source.

It’s Avlis, gun in one hand.

The boy in the other.

“You,” Patrick seethes, recognizing Avlis from case files immediately. “You did this.”

Avlis sneers and yanks the boy closer, tightening him in a headlock. He presses the gun to the boy’s temple, digging it into his skin. The boy struggles, even with the firearm there. He doesn’t get anywhere closer to escaping.

“Fuck,” Patrick hears Jonny cuss under his breath.

Patrick doesn’t back down. He feels all the anger and sorrow and sheer frustration of the last few weeks bubbling and swirling in the pit of his stomach, swirling in his head and blinding him from reason. It’s the peak of his emotions, the peak of _vengeance_ for everything he’s been through. For everything Jonny’s been through. For everything Jonny and Patrick, as a single unit, as a story, as a connection, have been through.

Put simply, Patrick is pissed and he’s aiming to take the shot.

“The kid,” Jonny urges, “don’t shoot, don’t risk the kid.”

Patrick ignores him, leveling his arms and squinting likes he always does right before he shoots.

“Patrick!” Jonny yells, angrier now. “Don’t!”

Pointedly ignoring Jonny’s pleas, Patrick takes a breath and —

**_BAM!_ **

The boy screams as he’s sprayed with blood but he’s smart enough to wrench out of Avlis’s dead grip as he falls, running instinctively to Jonny, who wraps him in his arms and holds him tight. Jonny comforts him, wiping the tears from his cheeks and gently stroking his head, tucking him into his shoulder.

Patrick’s heart absolutely melts, because that’s Jonny, that’s _his_ Jonny, under all the agent-trained hardness, still soft and raw. And Patrick loves him with every last space of his heart.

But even still, someone needs to stay level-headed here. It’s time to go.

“Jonny,” Patrick says gently, “come on.”

Slinging the boy to his hip, Jonny obediently follows as Patrick nudges toward the other end of the courtyard, anxiously scanning the sky. Patrick lifts his wrist, murmurs to Sharp then fiddles with it, murmuring to someone else.

“Hey,” Sharp pants, running up from around the corner. “Rendezvous point?”

Patrick shrugs, “they said to stay where we are.”

As if on cue, the thundering pulse of a helicopter echoes throughout the courtyard. The wind picks up in a familiar lick but the boy huddles closer to Jonny, his breathing picking up again. Jonny whispers to him and holds him tighter. Patrick pulls the both of them closer, shielding the boy as best he can.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Patrick murmurs, maybe to the boy but maybe also a little to Jonny, “I’ve got you.”

The wind rustles around them, whipping around leaves and dirt, but Patrick and Jonny squint up at the helicopter until a ladder drops the last few feet, swaying from the side hatch. With a little coaxing and reassurance from Jonny, the boy wraps his arm around Patrick’s neck, clings to him as he climbs up the ladder. Jonny follows soon after, and then Sharp, who signals for the helicopter to go ahead and start lift off.

The boy keeps his face tucked into Patrick’s neck, eyes screwed shut and breathing still unsteady, but Patrick whispers quiet reassurances to soothe him, right until he’s nudging him to climb into the vehicle, helped up by one of the guys onboard.

“Hey, Pat,” Andrew says, holding out his hand and hauling him up. But Patrick is soon forgotten, Andrew’s face lighting up when Jonny pops up, peeking into the cab.

“Toews!”

“Hi,” Jonny laughs, “uh, I could use a hand, though?”

“Oh, right!” Andrew’s back into action, gripping Jonny’s forearm and pulling him in as well. But before they can continue reunion pleasantries, Sharp pops up as well. Andrew rolls his eyes and goes to assist him before he can start complaining.

Meanwhile, the boy manages to scramble back to Jonny, holds onto him tight and refuses to let go. Jonny is a little surprised, but doesn’t hesitate in wrapping his arms around him, keeping him close.

Sharp, brushing himself off, notices and immediately softens, nudging Patrick in the side. It’s unnecessary, however, because Patrick’s already watching with a goofy smile and eyes warm. Sharp shakes his head, grinning. These fools.

Andrew procures a blanket, which gets wrapped around Jonny and the boy. He eventually sets them up with water and food packets then returns to the cockpit, clinking a few buttons to switch out of autopilot.

Too loud for conversation, Patrick opts to settle in the space next to Jonny, sneaking under the blanket, too, cuddling up as close as he can get. Their sides press together and it’s not much, isn’t anything really, but it’s so familiar, so much like _home_ , so much of something Patrick wasn’t sure he was ever going to have again.

Patrick’s body is aching and he’s exhausted but this is the best he’s felt in _weeks._

Sharp is set up next to him, huddled under his own blanket, head resting on Patrick’s shoulder but unobtrusive to his reunion with Jonny. It’s calm. It’s pleasant. It’s what Patrick needs right now. It’s his _family._

Soon enough, after drifting in and out of sleep, Andrew’s voice breaks over the intercom.

“Gentlemen. Welcome home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Patrick’s not an outdoors person, generally speaking, but there’s something about lazing around on a warm beach — alone with the one person that means the most — that overrides his predispositions to the elements.

Besides, Jonny keeps throwing the bottle of sunscreen at him about ten times every hour, so he’s in good hands.

“It’s hot,” Patrick says as he turns over in his lounge chair. He re-positions his laptop so it lays in front of him, out of the sun.

Jonny doesn’t even look up from his book, doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re hot.”

“I am,” Patrick whines, “but not the sexy way.” He pauses, but continues to type. “Well maybe also the sexy way, but that’s not what I mean.”

“Not mutually exclusive,” Jonny hums, but then he stops, shoves a crinkled receipt in the pages of his book and shuts it with finality. He looks at Patrick, then looks — glares — at his laptop. “Stop working.”

“It’s important—”

“It’s our _honeymoon_ ,” Jonny rolls his eyes. He reaches across and shuts the computer closed, Patrick’s attempts to stop him are weak.

“But the world, Jonny, it _needs_ me,” Patrick does his best to keep a straight face but can’t help it, cracking into grin in the end.

But Jonny grins, too, then leans over until he can grab Patrick’s chin and kiss him, indulgent. He pulls away just a bit, lips still brushing over Patrick’s.

“The world can wait,” he murmurs, low. Patrick moves to kiss him again, half-lidded, but Jonny pulls away then, sits back up, cheeky. “Besides, Andrew can use the practice.”

Patrick huffs, flops back into the cushions of his chair. “Asshole.”

“Oh,” Jonny tuts, picking up his book again, “you _love_ me.”

“Yeah, yeah” Patrick says, “something like that.”

He packs up his laptop but he lets Jonny read a little bit more, content to watch the waves gently fall and lap up against the sand. It’s kind of amazing, how blue the water is, how much it sparkles in the warm sun.

But it’s not the only view that Patrick is keen to enjoy. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t hide it at all, when he openly takes in Jonny. He’s practically glistening, coated in a light sheen, a mix of inevitable sweat and oily sunscreen. He looks good, all sunkissed skin, just as beautiful in the way it sparkles in the sun. Just like the ocean.

Postcard perfect, Patrick thinks.

“I can _feel_ you ogling me,” Jonny finally gives up on his book, shutting it with a thud. “You’re not subtle.”

Amused, Patrick takes the book from Jonny’s hands and throws it in his bag with the rest of the stuff. “I don’t have to be subtle, you’re my _husband,_ ” he holds up his left hand, lets the silver band on his finger glint in the light. “See?”

Jonny gets up and stretches his arms out, doesn’t even spare a glance at Patrick, but knows fully well that he’s looking. “Come on, let’s go back inside,” he says when he’s satisfied. He looks at Patrick and his eyes are dark, something devious in his eye.

“Oh, ho,” Patrick pretty much scrambles to his feet. “Inside, huh? What’s inside?” He grins, bats his lashes at Jonny like he doesn’t know exactly what’s inside.

“One way to find out,” Jonny starts up the beach.

Patrick grabs their stuff and isn’t too far behind him.

 

~

 

They barely make it through their front door before Jonny has Patrick pressed up against the back of it, hands eager to wander over every curve and jut of his body. Jonny doesn’t leave an inch of him untouched, hands calloused and rough against Patrick’s skin.

Patrick tilts his neck back until Jonny gets the hint, until Jonny grabs his chin and holds him still while he kisses him. He goes for it, biting at Patrick’s bottom lip until it’s red and swollen, tonguing at the seam until Patrick opens up for him, nice and steady.

It’s easy like this, easy to make out against the door like they’re young and rookies again, like everything is new and unfamiliar, including the maps of each others’ bodies. But the way Jonny touches him, it’s so expertly, so practiced, that every move makes Patrick light up.

“Come on, Jonny, come on,” Patrick manages between kisses, practically panting. “Take me to bed, come on.”

And as Patrick is pushy, Jonny is obliging. “Okay, yeah,” he murmurs against Patrick’s lips, “let’s go.”

Jonny holds his hand, uses it to drag him into the bedroom. There’s a bit of urgency, of course, but he pushes Patrick down gently, presses him softly into the mattress with strong hands and delicate touch.

Patrick lets himself be pushed down, sprawls out, even, just to give Jonny more room to work with. It works, because Jonny knees his way onto the bed, situated between Patrick’s thighs. He fits perfectly, like it’s the one place he’s supposed to be, meant to be.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Jonny breathes out all at once, can’t take his eyes off the expanse of Patrick’s skin.

Patrick smirks. “Well, it’s all yours, babe.”

Jonny _groans._

As much as he’d love to stop and admire the art as long as possible, there’s much more temptation in getting his hands on it, especially when it’s pliant, eager, for his touch. So Jonny leans over him, covers him with the full of weight, and starts to kiss him again.

It’s needier this time, dirtier. Their teeth clash together and Patrick can’t stop his noises, desperately arching up to get as close to Jonny as he possibly can. It’s not hard, because Jonny digs his fingers through Patrick’s curls, uses the leverage to angle him how he likes.

Jonny’s hands trails down his chest, tracing easy patterns and stopping at his nipples to pinch at them, once, twice. He moves his mouth down, gradually along Patrick’s jaw until he’s at his neck, nipping along the pulsepoint.

When he gets down to Patrick’s collarbone, sucking soft hickeys just under the jut of it, Patrick feels a hand on his dick, long lazy strokes from the base to the tip, pausing to thumb over the slit. Patrick melts into it, whines, even, when he feels Jonny’s own erection hot and hard, dragging along his thigh.

They’re so deep into it that Patrick doesn’t even notice when Jonny gets the lube or pops it open, doesn’t notice until he feels it drizzle over his hole, feels Jonny’s fingers, slick and ready, circling around the rim.

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick sighs, breathy, “I’m ready, come on.”

It’s all Jonny needs, enough of a go for him to push two long fingers in at once, gradual but steady. Patrick focuses on his breathing, screws his eyes shut and loses himself in the feeling, in the whole-body sensation of it.

It’s not too much, because Patrick is still a little loose from a few hours earlier. It _is_ their honeymoon, after all, and they’ve been making the absolute most of it. But, it’s still a general stretch, and it’s still a moment of anticipation of what’s next.

Until Jonny angles his wrist just right and pushes, firm, on one particular spot.

Patrick keens, high and shrill. He feels himself clench down on Jonny’s fingers, feels Jonny crook them to hit it again. And for every whine and sound Patrick makes, Jonny’s right there with him, too, his groans low and throaty.

“So good,” Jonny hums, back up to suck along Patrick’s jaw. “Perfect.”

Patrick feels his face heat, but he has other priorities. “Come on, more, give me more.”

Jonny doesn't need to be told twice. He gets another finger in, pumps them a few times before spreading them, quickly scissoring Patrick open.

He’s used so much lube that Patrick is wet and messy with it, practically dripping. Patrick can hear it, the quiet _squelch_ es, and it drives him crazy, goes straight to his dick.

“Jon, now,” Patrick wraps a leg around Jonny’s middle, uses it to pull him closer. “Now, please, _now._ ”

“Hm?” Jonny grins, sly. “You want _what_ now?” He plays dumb.

Patrick gives him a look and rolls his eyes, but he pulls him even closer and clenches down on his fingers. “You asshole,” he huffs, “fuck me _right_ now.”

Jonny leans down and kisses him once, just to the side of his lips, quick and closed-mouthed. “Of course, baby.”

So Jonny makes quick work of lining himself up, the head at Patrick’s entrance, a light pressure against it but not yet pushing all the way in. He rubs it over the outside, teasing, feeling hot on Patrick’s sensitive skin.

Patrick groans, throws his arms over his face. “Jonny, I swear—”

And that’s when Jonny chooses to push the head in, cutting Patrick off into a high moan, caught off guard.

“You fucker,” Patrick says, but he’s grinning, panting, pressing himself further into it.

Steadily pushing in, inch by inch, Jonny laughs just a little. “Look at you take it.”

Patrick doesn't reply with anything other than a whine and a roll of his hips, a push for Jonny to do more, to not hold back. Jonny hears it loud and clear because he finally gets all the way in, balls pressed hot against Patrick’s ass.

He waits for a minute, concentrated on the feel of Patrick around him. Once Patrick relaxes enough to his satisfaction, Jonny pulls back all the way, then slams back in, hard and fast and all in one motion.

“Fuck,” Patrick sighs, “god, fuck yes.”

So Jonny continues, rolling his hips into it, using his full weight. Eventually, he sags over Patrick, braces himself with his forearm just to the side of Patrick’s head. He ruts into him, lost in it but still focused on keeping up a proper rhythm that sends Patrick wild.

Patrick snakes a hand between them, gets it fisted around his own dick. He gets two, maybe three, strokes in before he feels Jonny’s bat him away, easily taking over right where he’d left off.

Jonny knows his body, knows it better than himself sometimes. So with Jonny inside him and his hand around him, Patrick doesn’t last much longer.

“Babe, babe,” he huffs, “I’m going to— I’m close— I’m—”

“Shh,” Jonny is at his ear, kisses the skin behind it, sucks gently there. “Go ahead, baby, let go for me.”

It’s incredibly overwhelming, the feeling of the one person you love more than anything in the world, completely enveloping you in every way. It’s incredibly overwhelming, feeling so close to perfection, to everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever meant to have.

It’s incredibly overwhelming, so it only makes sense that that’s how Patrick comes over the both of them, messy and sticky and gross, but so incredibly perfect, so incredibly how it should be. Jonny’s name on his lips, on his mind; on his past, his present, his future.

Jonny must come around the same time, or soon after, because Patrick feels him pull out, feels the warmth of it spill onto his stomach, mixing with the rest. Heaving, Jonny falls into the mattress next to him, bounces once.

Patrick doesn’t hesitate, not now, not when he doesn’t have to.

Jonny’s right here for his taking, so he savors it, cuddles into him as close as they can possible be. Tucks his head under his chin, rests tiredly on his chest.

He dozes off like that, with Jonny whispering sweet nothings into his hair, hand rubbing soft circles into his back.

 

~

 

They have dinner at the castle, in a tower that overlooks the shore as the sun sets in a watercolor of pinks and indigos, melting gradually into the dark of the water. The royal family, just the immediate family, shares a table with them, a bottle of finely aged wine cracked between them.

“Thank you again for having us,” Jonny says to them, Patrick’s hand held tightly in his. “It’s been wonderful.”

The Queen shakes her head, a smile gracing her lips. “It’s the absolute least we could do. And you two are always welcome any time, any time at all.”

“Really, though,” Patrick says, “this has always been our dream. Thank you.”

The King picks up the bottle of wine and tops off both Patrick and Jonny’s glasses. “No, thank _you_ for bringing our boy home.”

He looks to the boy seated between him and his wife, gaze so full of fondness, contentedness, love. He ruffles his hair, flouncing his curls, smiles wider when the boy giggles. Even now, he reminds Jonny so much of Patrick, his heart clenches.

Jonny holds out his hand for the boy, who promptly high-fives him. “All teamwork, that one. He’s a very smart boy.” Jonny winks at him, watches the boy grin. “Couldn’t have survived it without him.” He looks to his parents now. “Truly, he’s very special.”

The Queen looks at her son, now, a sparkle in her eye. “He is, thank you.”

It’s easy, it’s pleasant, especially in warm ocean air with good company and good food. It’s not that they go all out, but the royal family is set on showing them the highlights of their small sovereign’s culture and cuisine. Jonny and Patrick and more than happy to indulge, content to relax into the night.

It’s late when they finally stumble back to their place, ready to turn in for the night. But the door’s barely closed behind them before there’s a knock, crisp and quick.

Confused, Patrick cautiously peers through the window, and while he relaxes, his confusion goes deeper. Before Jonny can question it, Patrick’s already at the door, yanking it back open.

And standing there just a little sheepishly, but as official as he can muster, is Andrew Shaw.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentleman,” he offers, pulling out an envelope. “But I’m afraid it’s urgent. The world needs you. Both of you.”

When Jonny looks, Patrick is already looking at him. There’s the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, free of any nuance.

So Jonny shrugs, shakes his head with a hint of a grin, himself.

“Alright,” Patrick nods, determined. And it’s so like him, Jonny grins wider, fully now.

“Let’s go save the world.”

  
  


_( the end. )_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Full Warnings (containing spoilers):**  
>  • There is detailed action/spy movie-typical violence, which includes a lot of fighting and combat as well as subsequent injury. Nothing is in overly gory detail but there is a bit of light detail and some blood.  
> • There is a _lot_ of firearm usage in this story. They're made/crafted, practiced with, and used against other people all throughout.  
> • This story features a child who is held captive alongside Jonny and is mistreated and, on one occasion, hit by the villain. There isn't anything graphic or super detailed, but it's a big part throughout the fic.  
> • Regarding the PTSD, it's not fully explained but there is an instance where it's hinted that Patrick was captured and tortured while on a mission with Jonny, so both of them have nightmares about it after the fact  
> • Regarding character death, Jonny is presumed dead at one point and Patrick goes through the stages of grief and mourning. However, Jonny is not actually dead and Patrick eventually figures this out.  
> • There are a couple of scenes where Patrick emotionally drinks and a hint to the possibly of alcoholism but it's acknowledged and isn't detailed

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [temeraire: the ebook adaptation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993341) by [cuddlefighter (bibbasaur)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibbasaur/pseuds/cuddlefighter)




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